
ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES. 



BY THE LATE 

WILLIAM RODGER THOMSON, 

Member of the Legislative Assembly for Fort Beaufort. 



WITH A MEMOIR. 



CAPE TOWN: 



J. C. JUTA, 
1868. 



TIKE AND BYLES, PRINTERS, 
ST. GEORGE'S-STREET, CAPE TOWN. 



LC Control Number 



TO 

THE EEV. WILLIAM RITCHIE THOMSON, 

OF HERTZOG, STOCKENSTROM, 



THIS MEMORIAL OF HIS LAMENTED SON, 



WILLIAM EODG-EK THOMSON, 



rs 



AFE CTION ATEL Y AND RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 



BY THE EDITOR, 



JOHN NOBLE. 

Cape Town, December, 1867. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

MEMOIR vii 

ORIGINAL POEMS. 

Cape of Good Hope 3 

Where are They? 4 

Autumn Leaves 6 

Music 9 

Day-Dreams 12 

Hope . . 14 

Battle of Beresina 15 

Who? 17 

Love's Seasons , 18 

The Stricken Soldier 20 

The Dom-Church of Utrecht 22 

The Baptism of the Dead < 24 

The Poet 28 

Speaking Eyes 29 

Amakeya 80 

The Gale of May, 1865 41 

Joy and Sorrow 46 

Bequlescant 47 

The Busty Key 51 

On the Death of Tollens 53 

o may i meet once more my friends 54 

To : 55 

To a Sister — A Fragment 56 

Farewell 58 

Impromptu in an Album 59 

Volunteers' March 59 

Good Hope 60 

Lines in an Album 62 

An Enigma 64 



vi 



PAGE 

Christmas Carol 65 

Peace ox Earth 67 

New and Old 70 

The Way, the Truth, and the Life 71 

Not far Away 72 

Home 74 

TRANSLATED POEMS. 

From the " Lucifer" of Van Vondel 77 

Abd-el-Kader (Ter-Haar) 107 

To the Stars ( „ ) 112 

The Mother and her Child (Dekker) 113 

The Nursery Maid's Death (Tollens) 11G 

Recollection (Beets) 119 

Willie's Lament on the Death of his Sister (Van Alphen) 122 

ESSAYS, SKETCHES, &c. 

Holland and its People 125 

Thomas Pringle 135 

The Woburn Massacre : A Tale of the Kafir War 151 

Types and Phases of Colonial Life and Character 163 

How to Enjoy Christmas Day in Cape Town 175 

A Day's Travel on the Frontier 181 

The Days of Governor Van Noot 187 

Addresses to Children 215 



MEMOIR. 



The life of which these pages are an imperfect memorial, was 
too calm and undemonstrative, as well as too brief in its 
career, to present in its details much variety of incident or 
event. Yet it was distinguished by features which have an 
interest and value of their own. The main characteristics 
of the deceased were a kind and genial disposition, with a 
marked unassumingness of manner, which alike drew forth 
love, and commanded respect and esteem ; a cultivated mind, 
with a rare felicity of thought and expression, displaying 
acute observation and poetic sensibility, which gave promise 
of rich literary production ; and a loyal patriotism, which 
prompted voice and pen to aid every good design, tending to 
promote the prosperity and happiness of this country and its 
people. These qualities attracted the attention of all to whom 
the late Mr. Thomson was intimately known, as well as of many 
who were but slightly acquainted with him. We would not 
willingly suffer the remembrance of them to perish. In young 
communities such as ours, it is well to hold in recollection the 
words and works of those who, amid the current of daily occu- 
pations, have looked beyond themselves, and laboured by 
thought and action to raise the standard of our moral and 
intellectual life. The number of such — and especially of 
native-born colonists — who have passed away from us in late 
years has been mysteriously numerous. Some had fully and 
faithfully completed their day's work when the eventide fell 
over them ; . others alas ! were but entering on the labours 
they had made choice of, and awakening expectations which 
the Providence that rules over us determined should not be 
realized. The monument we may raise to them can be but 



Vlll 



a broken column. But in our memories we may embalm 

them while we live, and in our recollections of what they were, 

or in our narration of what they have done, the incentive may 
be given to others to carry out the plans they sketched, and 
realize the hopes they cherished. It is with this object the 
following memoir is undertaken. 

The author of the accompanying Poems and Sketches, 
"William Eodger Thomson, was born at Balfour, district of 
Stockenstrom, Cape Colony, on the 27th August, 1832. His 
father, the venerable Eev. "William Eitchie Thomson, was then, 
as now, the minister of the Dutch Eeformed Church in that 
district, formerly and still known as the Kat Eiver Settlement. 
In Mr. Thomson's fourth year, and before he could well feel or 
appreciate the love of a most affectionate mother, she was taken 
from him, on the 20th August, 1838. This was to him one of 
the heaviest of life's afflictions, and the remembrance of it was 
continuous and lasting. Affectionate and sensitive to an ex- 
treme degree, he stood peculiarly in need of the soothing and 
strengthening attentions of maternal love and watchfulness. 
i 6 It is an awful thing to lose a mother," was the touching 
utterance he made to us when the events of his too brief life 
were solemnly brought in review before him, and it expressively 
revealed how the sad bereavement had left its impress on him. 
The tender affection he cherished for her memory found an 
outlet on various occasions, as in the pathetic lyric, " Where 
are they?" printed in these pages, and in another earlier 
effusion, of which we have only this fragment : — 

I'll visit her grave at the even-tide, 

And I'll lay me down by its side, 

And shed a sad tear o'er the holy sod, 

My mother's cold earthly abode ; 

Her spirit will look from its blissful seat, 

And her mourning son it will greet, 

And quench his tears by directing his eyes 

To her home — far beyond the skies. 

The mother's place was principally supplied by his three 
sisters, upon whom his home training devolved ; but in a few 
years after, by the death of the two elder, he was thrown 



ix 



entirely upon the care of his youngest sister. The little girl of 
yore is now the beloved wife of Mr. C. Brownlee, the Gaika 
Commissioner, and from her recollections of her brother, we 
learn : — " He was studious and a lover of books, when once he 
had mastered the difficulties of alphabet and spelling, in which 
branches I, though not much in advance of him, was his pre- 
ceptress. Far back in the vista of memory, a little shady seat 
rises before my view, to which we used to retire in fine weather, 
for this purpose ; hard work, I thought it then, and small pro- 
gress made, which was more the fault of the teacher than the 
pupil. I have a distant remembrance of a visitor finding us 
both in tears, Willie because he could not remember, and I for 
fear of losing papa's good-night kiss, which was the punishment 
if Willie did not know his hymn. The friend referred to kindly 
sat down beside us, and learning the cause of our grief, gave 
me some hints, which, being followed, the hymn was ever after 
learned quickly and gleefully." He naturally clung with close 
affection towards his sister, and he was extremely" sensitive of 
her love. "I remember," she adds, " once, when we were 
small, offending him so terribly that he rushed away into the 
garden, to give vent to his feelings. I followed, and tried to 
take his hand, but he pulled his away, and in doing so slightly 
grazed mine against a tree. This was quite enough. All 
anger vanished ; his arm was round my neck, and his cheek 
rubbing against mine, which was a favourite way with him of 
showing his affection." 

In July, 1841, although under the age, but being found on 
examination qualified, he was admitted to the Seminary at 
Lovedale, near Alice, under the charge of the Eev. Mr. Govan. 
During his elementary course of study, until the war of 
1846, he does not appear to have been distinguished above 
his fellows, but pursued quietly and steadily the prescribed 
course of study. He was then, as afterwards in life, un- 
assuming and undemonstrative, and little affected by any 
external existing circumstances. On one occasion, at the 
holiday time, when every one else was hurrying about to 
be ready for leaving, he was not to be found. At length, 
after searching everywhere, he was discovered in the library, 



X 



lying on the floor, with a huge folio nearly as large as 
himself, open before him — the interest that a lad usually takes 
in mounting his horse and riding off for home, lost in the 
deeper interest of his book. Not that he was by any means 
indifferent to home. He had all except a mother to make home 
very sweet ; and the partings on a return to school were always 
painful, so much did his affectionate nature cling to those left 
behind. He was generally indifferent to the usual athletic 
sports of boyhood, and sought rather the more quiet enjoyment 
of social companionship. His holiday pleasures, therefore, 
were those which he derived from strolling about in the neigh- 
bourhood of his home in the company of, or holding converse 
with, a relative or a friend like-minded with himself. But the 
want of such did not hinder his enjoyment. His own recorded 
observation, made when his mind began to awaken to reflection, 
is quite descriptive of himself in those early days. He writes : 
— " B. and I had a walk round the crags. What a magnificent 
view ; I never tire of it. B., poor fellow, is of rather too 
phlegmatic a temperament either to enjoy the beauty or the 
grandeur of nature. I cannot comprehend how some people 
seem so indifferent to a fine landscape ; it makes no impression 
on them. They never stop and gaze with delight, but merely 
give a passing glance, and are satisfied. For this reason, I like 
my own company much better in a walk than being with others." 
In one of these holiday walks at home, he accidentally lighted 
upon a small fragment of fossil ; this roused him to further 
search, by which he was successful in discovering many speci- 
mens of the Dicynodon, which had then recently been brought 
to the knowledge of geologists by the late Mr. A. Gr. Bain. 

Shortly after the commencement of the Kafir war of 1846, 
the principal of the Lovedale Seminary, the Bev. Mr. Govan, 
having resolved to return to Scotland, Mr. Thomson was sent 
with him to enter upon a more advanced course of study. 
While scarcely more than a baby, he had expressed a wish to 
follow his father's profession, and often, while yet a little fat 
figure in frocks, he would mount a chair, and preach to his 
young companions, voice and action being so well imitated as 
to cause much merriment to the listeners, but vexation to the 



xi 



sermonizer. As he grew older, he still held the sacred office in 
view, and his studies were pursued with the object of preparing 
him for entering upon it. After a short residence amongst his 
father's and mother's relatives, he attended the classes at the 
Glasgow University, where he continued until 1851, when he re- 
moved to the Edinburgh University, which he attended during the 
next two succeeding years. As a student he appears to have been 
diligent, and to have given proof of unmistakeable ability ; and 
the professors of his day, including such men as Wilson, Aytoun, 
Hamilton, Lee, Forbes, and Kelland, bore testimony to this, as 
well as to his irreproachable character. A diary which he kept 
at this time contains a record of his daily occupations, reading, 
and intercourse with friends and fellow- students. A few extracts 
will indicate the character of these : — " Got sick of Algebra ; 
took up Macaulay's Essays. These I devoured — I could not 
stop till I had gone through three of them. What a splendidly 
vigorous style ! I think it is without exception the finest — per- 
haps not the purest — I ever read. As a writer he is rather 
captious, and too apt to catch at straws." " Eead Colman's 
Sketches till six. A regular Yankee, not sticking at an ex- 
aggeration now and then. His style shockingly loose, and 
almost ungrammatical. As usual came across some ' down- 
west' exaggerations that would have done credit to any brother 
Jonathan. In one letter, he interprets the verse, ' God made 
man upright, but they have sought out many inventions,' — 
the ' they' as referring to women, with how much truth I 
will not say, but certainly with no great respect for the Bible." 
Notes of his Sabbath engagements are frequent. Take the 
following: — " January 25. Sabbath. In the forenoon, heard 
Dr. Gordon lecture from John xx., 19 — Jesus appearing to 
His disciples in the upper room, after His resurrection — their 
unbelief and hardness of heart — the care of the Saviour to pre- 
pare them beforehand for His appearance, by sending them His 
message by Mary. Very beautiful and practical the old Doctor 
is always. In the afternoon, Dr. G. preached from Luke xxiv., 
46-7-8, < Then it behoved Christ to suffer and rise,' &c. He 
was even better than in the forenoon. In the evening, heard 
B., of St, B, His preaching rather mystical, I think, and not 



Xll 



so plain as the Gospel ought to be preached. In the evening, 
read Brainerd's Life. What a singularly holy man he was ! 
Nothing earthly seemed to have charms for him ; all his 
affections and desires seemed fixed on things above. It is a 
beautiful night again after the rain. Not a cloud obscures the 
stars, and they are shining forth in unsullied glory. What a 
beautiful saying I have heard somewhere, said to have been 
uttered by a child. When asked what the stars were, he 
answered, with as much poetry as beauty, i They are holes cut 
in the heavens to let God's glory through,' and truly they speak 
God's glory in a manner that makes one involuntarily adore the 
creator of such infinite worlds : 4 The Heavens declare Thy 
Glory, Lord.' " Eef erring to the funeral of a cousin, he 
writes: — "At the grave, Uncle seemed crushed down by the 
heavy load of grief, and leaning against the column at the head 
of the ground, he wept like a child. Truly a man's tears have 
something fearful in them. Woman was made to weep, and 
tears from her soften the heart, but the tears of a man seem to 
be wrung from his soul by a grief which overwhelms him.'' 
" Came home. Bead Barrow. Like him better than ever. 
His account is the most truthful I have read. Finished Barrow 
with great delight." "Bead Spaarman. Most amusing style; 
quite different from the grave Barrow." Such short notices of 
his reading, and opinion of the author, frequently occur, show- 
ing that he was no superficial reader. Verse composition was 
also occasionally adopted as a recreation, and from his exer- 
cises of the luetic faculty at this time we extract the following 
lines, showing his fond recollections of home : — 

I dreamt of nay childhood, a sweet dream of joy — 

A dream of pure gladness, without an alloy, 

Of the days when, unfetter' d by withering care, 

My heart was as free and light as the air ; 

I dreamt of my home in the bright sunny south ; 

I dreamt of the days of my innocent youth ; 

I dreamt of those hours when, beneath the green shade 

Of the orange tree groves, in rapture I strayed, 

Or when wearied with sport I was lulled into sleep 

By the murmuring stream where the willow trees weep ; 



Xlll 



Of my father, my sisters, and brothers I dreamed, 
And my mother's soft smile from heav'n on me beam'd, 
Till with tears of full joy I've moistened my pillow 
As I dreamed of my home far across the wide billow. 

Towards the close of 1853, Mr. Thomson proceeded to Holland, 
to mature his acquaintance with the language of that country 
and to finish his theological studies. Keeping in view his own 
and his father's desire, that he should enter upon the ministry 
in his native land, the University of Utrecht was chosen 
as his third alma mater. The years passed there were the 
most important of his life. A Scottish relative/ 1 ' writing to 
his father respecting him, says : — " Owing to his silence 
and reserve, perhaps a constitutional malady, "William passed 
from Edinburgh to Holland almost a stranger to all of us. 
When he returned, a remarkable change had passed upon 
him. He was frank, communicative, and eloquent, while his 
remarks upon men and things showed us he had thought deeply 
and learned and observed much." At Utrecht, for two or 
three years, his studies were pursued with buoyant energy, 
not only by attendance upon lectures and classes, but by 
self-application and independent thinking. He was a mem- 
ber, and for several succeeding sessions the president, of a 
club chiefly composed of Cape students, and expressively 
named "Pro Patria." The addresses delivered and the dis- 
cussions which followed at the meetings of the members, 
had a considerable influence in maturing his mind and charac- 
ter. His taste for literature and poetry increased, and many 
an interval was occupied in the composition of essays or frag- 
ments of verse, to be read to the members of " Pro Patria" or 
published in the " Student's Almanac." His marked abilities, 
with a vein of humour and anecdote which he occasionally 
would open, and his genial disposition, made him a favourite 
with all his fellow-students, and his company was welcomed 
on every social and festive occasion. Meanwhile, amid this 
apparent cheerfulness and good humour amongst his asso- 

* His uncle, Mr. Thos. Thomson, author of " The Comprehensive History 
of England," and other works. 



xiv 



ciates, lie was struggling with a private grief, which, from 
his constitutional reserve, he secretly nursed and did not 
disclose even to his most intimate friends, though it inter- 
fered with his application to study as well as soured the 
pleasures of social intercourse. Of this he was himself sen- 
sible, and wrote : — " Oh why must I ever be so unhappy, 
and why must I for ever wear an appearance of gaiety ? 
Sick at heart — sick and weary — and yet I love to rush into 
the crowd — and drown myself in a multitude. Why cannot 
I bear the remarks of others when a sudden fit of gloom 
comes over me ? Went to the usual Cape meeting (of students) ; 
at the close of it was rendered almost savage by the remarks 
of some members. How is it that so few men seem to possess 
that innate delicacy of mind which shrinks from injuring the 
feelings of another, even by the most trivial remarks, or why 
are others made so susceptible that the least approach to coarse 
rudeness oppresses them ?" " To-day I read a poem by Edgar 
Poe, which has cast a deeper gloom on me. His genius was 
extraordinary and of the purest kind. His life was one con- 
tinued tragedy of * life without hope.' The iDoem is entitled 
' The Eaven.' 0, how truly does he picture my hapless con- 
dition. There sits the raven, black bird of omen, for ever 
before my eyes. In vain I sigh and cry, ' Leave my loneliness 
unbroken, quit the bust above my door, take thy beak from out my 
heart, and take thy form from off my door.' Quoth the raven, 
' Never more.' Ah ! never more ; never, never, never more." 
In this same melancholy mood many of his smaller poems were 
written, and indeed throughout them all there is a pensive 
undertone of what, in " Love's Seasons," he describes as 

The cold despair of winter, 
When the heart is chilled with grief, 
When the soul, in tearless anguish, 
Seeks but cannot find relief ; 
When the phantoms of past gladness 
Flit across the midnight gloom, 
And the soul in horror flees them, 
And longs for — the silent tomb. 

Other depressing influences combined at this time to make the 
load at his heart still more heavy. He felt most keenly the 



XV 



apparent contradiction between the life within and the develop- 
ment of that life which he had early marked out for himself as 
a profession. He had studied and matured himself as a theo- 
logian ; but his highly sensitive mind felt that there was a war 
within himself — that, while he sought to be pure and holy in 
thought and action, he was still wanting in the assurance of 
that blessed hope which afterwards upbore him, and without 
which perfection he dared not go forth as a preacher of the 
Gospel. The modern theological views which were then be- 
coming prevalent in Holland were often discussed with some of 
his student friends ; but neither at this time, nor in after years, 
had he any sympathy with them, beyond a feeling of sorrow 
and regret for those who were in any way influenced by them. 
His own mind was ever fixed on the pure and simple doctrines 
of the Eeformation. After some time he fully and frankly 
communicated to his father the doubts and scruples which 
weighed with him in respect of the responsibilities of the minis- 
terial office, and from him he received the most affectionate 
sympathy, which encouraged him to complete his course of 
study and pass the final degree, by which he became a licen- 
tiate of the Dutch Eeformed Church. But during this interval 
of unsettledness, Mr. Thomson was not altogether idle. He 
conceived some literary plans, with the hope of finding a 
congenial field of labour in that domain. The poets of 
Holland, with whose works in the original he had made him- 
self acquainted, appeared to him worthy of a more extended 
reputation than they enjoyed, and he applied himself to the 
translation of several specimens. These, together with some 
original poems, he put before the English public in a small 
volume published by Dannenfelser, of Utrecht, in 1858. In 
a preface to this work, he modestly says : — " The writer an- 
ticipates the question : Why, in opening a new language and 
literature, do you present specimens so circumscribed as to date, 
so few in number, and so meagre in merit ? To the first objec- 
tion he would answer that he has purposely confined himself to 
the present poets of Holland ; if these meet with a favourable 
reception, he does not doubt that the works of the Dutch poets 
of the 18th and 17th centuries — the age of Holland's greatest 



XVI 



glory, not only as an European power, but also as a centre of 
light for learning and the fine arts — will gain more ready 
readers among the inhabitants of that country which has learned 
so many of the ' arts of war and peace' from the now less 
known and respected ' United Provinces.' To the second objec- 
tion, the writer can only answer that the fear of failure has 
withheld him from making the risk too great and costly for his 
pocket. And if, unfortunately, the third objection be also 
raised by his readers, then the translator would only desire to 
pray the critics to vent their criticism and abuse upon himself, 
and not too hastily, judging from these specimens, condemn the 
Poetry of the Netherlands. If these specimens, therefore, meet 
with an unfavourable reception, let the blame be laid upon the 
translator, and not upon those whom he has attempted to intro- 
duce in an English garb. And as to his own effusions, the 
author would only add, if he has erred in making them public, 
he takes refuge in the lines of Burns :— 

' wad some power the giftie gie us, 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us, 
And foolish notion.' " 

What pecuniary success attended this essay to catch the public 
ear we know not, but we believe that the translations secured 
even a favourable judgment from the Athenaum, and the ori- 
ginal poems, from the w 7 arm patriotic feeling which they 
breathed, interested many readers at the Cape in favour of the 
writer. He continued to occupy his pen with further transla- 
tions and literary sketches. The most important of these was 
the translation of a beautifully-written novel, entitled Max 
Havelaar, by " Mattatuli," — the pseudonym for M. Dowes 
Dekker, an ex-assistant resident of Java. The object of the 
work was to expose and direct attention to the ill-treatment to 
which the natives of Java were subjected by the European 
authorities, and it created a sensation in Holland almost equal 
to that aroused in England by Uncle Tom's Cabin. Within a few 
weeks the first edition was exhausted, but a second one, though 
loudly called for, never appeared. The story of its suppression 
is told in a notice of the book in a recent number of the North 



XVII 



British Review. M. Dekker had, it seems, disposed of the copy- 
right of the work to a gentleman of high reputation in the 
country, himself a gifted author, who found a publisher for the 
then unknown writer ; but the offence given by some personal 
attacks contained in it, and the sensation it had made, caused 
the owner of the manuscript to refuse allowing a second edition, 
and a court of law ruled in his favour. Mr. Thomson's trans- 
lation of the work is very happily executed, and it is to be re- 
gretted that it did not come before the English public. The 
prescribed limits of these pages preclude our giving any ade- 
quate extract from it. 

In 1860, a circumstance took place which induced Mr. 
Thomson to return to the Cape. In that year, the Eev. Dr. 
Eobertson, of Swellendam, visited Europe, commissioned by the 
Dutch Eeformed Church in the Colony to engage men devoted to 
Christian work to come out and help to supply the increasing 
spiritual wants of our country parishes. At Utrecht he made 
the acquaintance of Mr. Thomson, and judging that his talents, 
whether in the pulpit or out of it, could not be but of service 
in his native land, urged him to return and labour there. After 
some consideration, Mr. Thomson acquiesced in the proposal, 
and made arrangements for leaving for the Cape. A short 
visit to his friends in Scotland intervened, and in April, 1861, 
he arrived in Table Bay. After his arrival, he presented his 
credentials, as a licentiate, to the senior ministers of the 
Church in Cape Town, but he took no further steps to enter 
upon active life in that direction. He occasionally, at the re- 
quest of some of his clerical friends, preached both in Dutch 
and English, in the town and neighbourhood. These pulpit 
services were marked by simplicity and devotedness and evan- 
gelical faith, and it was hoped that he would ere long comply 
with the wishes of his friends and settle down to a ministerial 
life. But although most tempting prospects of worldly comfort 
and much usefulness were held out to him, his keenly sensitive 
mind still presented reasons which conscientiously deterred 
him from entering upon that course. Having finally resolved 
to adhere to this decision, he looked towards Literature as an 
occupation, and to the Press as a pulpit whence he might 

A * 



XY111 



preach more acceptably. His first contributions were to the 
South African Advertiser and Mail, and consisted of a series of 
articles on University Education in Holland. Eeviews of new 
books followed from time to time, and then, having acquired that 
local knowledge w T hich is indispensable to a colonial journalist, 
he became a regular contributor of criticisms on the events of 
the day. In a community like ours, where there is little 
variableness, and life too often seems a monotonous round of 
daily business, it is no easy task to provide food for the reading 
public ; but his ready pen caught up the floating thoughts of the 
day and gave expression to them in a genial style — encourag- 
ingly stimulating every good effort for the social or intellectual 
improvement of the people, and gently hitting at the follies and 
eccentricities of our colonial life as they presented their features 
before him. In 1862 he proceeded to the Frontier, on a visit to 
his paternal home, where he received a' most affectionate welcome 
from his friends, and especially from his father's parishioners. 
On his return to Cape Town, the same year, he resumed his 
work as an occasional writer for the Press. During the 
meeting of the Dutch Church Synod in that year he took a 
lively interest in the important questions which then occupied 
the attention of the body, and although an outsider, contributed 
considerably to the discussions which these evoked. While sup- 
porting the views and sentiments of the Evangelical party, he 
censured any manifestation of that bigoted spirit which has made 
the odium theologicum pass into a proverb ; and in reference 
to the divisions which resulted therefrom, he characteristically 
wrote: " Christian charity sits mourning at the grave of the 
late saintly minister of Uitenhage : can she not be wooed 
back to those courts where his surviving brethren are wrang- 
ling in the name, as they say, of the God who is Love?" 
His regard for the personal character of the members of the 
Synod was, however, affectionately reverential and sincere. 
Describing its opening sitting, he said : — " More than half of 
the members are men, some who have lately, others who have 
long years since, enjoyed the advantages of a University educa- 
tion, and even these members have a ruggedness of speech, 
of which more polished assemblies, perhaps, would be ashamed, 



xix 

but of which these men are justly proud. Theirs has not been 
the smooth and intellectual intercourse with men of every class 
in cities, nor the calm and even pastoral work of a European 
country congregation. They have to gallop for days over their 
parishes ; to rough it in the bush and veld ; to live and con- 
verse with parishioners as primitive in their habits and modes 
of thought, and yet not as unprejudiced, as the heathen around 
them ; and the character of their work has stamped itself on 
their form and faces. There is not wanting that keen, search- 
ing, confident look, which is quickened and refined by education 
working on minds naturally susceptible and acute ; but there is 
a something about all which shows that little of their work is 
done in the study. Their sermons must often be conned on 
horseback, and written on the wagon-chest. Before they preach 
they must straw, off- saddle, and knee-halter their horses, or 
outspan their oxen, and after they have finished, they must at 
times kindle a fire and cook their dinner as best they can with 
scanty camp appliances. These and such-like miscellaneous 
labours have made many of the ministers of the Dutch 
Eeformed Church the rough and tough veterans they look ; but 
these labours have extended the influence of that Church 
to the remotest bounds of South African civilization." 

At this time he was offered and accepted the duties of respon- 
sible editor of the Volksvriend, which was then established as an 
organ of the Evangelical party in the Church. His own feel- 
ings w^ere quite in accord with the theological views which the 
promoters and supporters of that journal had at heart ; but his 
accommodating and graceful charitableness for others could not 
allow him to become an out-and-out partizan, and feeling him- 
self uncomfortable, he resigned that position which, upon first 
assuming, he regarded as a most fitting one for the exercise of 
his talents. He still, however, continued at intervals to write 
for the Press. He had a true desire to be useful, and was 
always ready to give a helping hand to any good movement. 
At the request of the committees of several of our local 
institutions he delivered lectures on their behalf, which 
were generally well appreciated by the public. His ser- 
vices were also freely given as honorary secretary to the 



XX 



committee for the relief of the sufferers by the heavy floods of 
1862. But it was necessary for him to increase his income by 
other labours than his occasional writings for the press afforded. 
He entertained a project of establishing a periodical publica- 
tion suited to the w T ants of the country population, but the 
absence of any prospect of pecuniary success prevented his 
object being realized. There was also a floating idea of employ- 
ment as an inspector of schools in the country districts, which 
would give him an opportunity of acquainting himself with the 
different classes of our varied population, and of stimulating 
them to higher desires and action. Meanwhile, he was en- 
gaged by Mr. T. W. Bowler, who was then preparing his illus- 
trations of " The Kafir Wars and British Settlers in South 
Africa," to write the letter-press descriptive of these views, 
which, from his knowledge of the Frontier and his appreciation 
of the artist's work, he was peculiarly fitted for. He was also 
requested by some of the parishioners of Uitenhage to draw up 
a Memoir of the late Bev. Alexander Smith, which he readily 
undertook, and his sketch of the life and character of that 
venerable man is marked by filial reverence and affection, 
for he had learned to know and love him as a son loves a father. 
He was afterwards employed by Mr. Juta, the publisher, to edit 
the " Pictorial Album of the Cape," recently brought before the 
public, and the historical and descriptive sketches in this 
volume show how extensive and accurate was his knowledge of 
the past and present history of the Colony. No part of these 
literary labours are re-produced in these pages, as they are 
already available to the public as separate works. 

In 1864 Mr. Thomson was invited to enter Parliament. The 
requisition came from some old home friends in his native 
district, who solicited him to be their representative in the 
House of Assembly. At first he modestly shrunk from what he 
considered to be the honour and responsibility of such a position, 
but on being urged to look upon it as a new and important 
sphere of influence and usefulness, he set aside his own scruples 
and consented to be put in nomination as a candidate. In his 
address in reply to the requisition from the electors of the 
district of Fort Beaufort, he frankly said: — "I must candidly 



xxi 



confess to you that I have at times cherished — as I trust many 
another young colonist does cherish — an honourable ambition 
to secure Parliamentary honours. But having such thoughts, 
I sought to repress them till a more convenient time. For, in 
my humble opinion, a member of Parliament ought to be able, 
boldly and successfully to do his duty, to occupy a more in- 
dependent and influential position in society than I have yet 
attained or ever may attain. I believe, in fact, that our Parlia- 
ment never will be what it ought to be until private considera- 
tions of profit and loss, objections to absent themselves from 
home or the business of the farm or counting-house, and other 
minor incumbrances, weigh less with candidates put in nomina- 
tion than they do at present. But not as yet being able in this 
country always to meet with candidates who are in a position 
cheerfully to suffer private inconveniences for the sake of public 
good, electors are forced in many cases to send to Parliament 
men of inferior influence and position, who can combine private 
with Parliamentary business, or who hurry over the latter to 
devote themselves again as soon as possible exclusively to the 
former. I fear you have been thus straitened and forced in 
your choice. For were the circumstances of the country and 
the prestige of our Parliament such as I trust they soon will be, 
I could not have hoped to receive, nor would I have dreamt of 
accepting, such a requisition as* that which you have sent me. 
As they are not — as you have forced me to the conclusion that 
you believe I can even now do you some slight service in Par- 
liament, I think it no presumption on my part to accept the 
honour — for I do think it an honour indeed which you have 
offered to me — I feel doubly honoured and gratified because 
this offer has come to me from men who in this delicate but 
decided way tell me they trust that, though I have been so long 
separated from them, I have not ceased to feel affection for my 
native district, and a warm interest in the welfare of those 
among whom my early years were spent." No man ever 
entered upon political life with a deeper sense of duty, or 
a more earnest zeal to serve his country. Territorial 
differences, which have from time to time absorbed the 
attention of politicians, were then prominently agitated ; 



XXII 



but he determined to avoid all partisanship, and to act 
independently, according to his own conception of what 
was right. In his address he stated: — "I will, without 
pledging myself to any party or faction, conscientiously 
advocate the introduction of such changes as I see cause to 
believe will tend to the benefit of the whole Colony. As an 
Eastern man, I am proud of the Province to which I belong, 
and look with admiration upon the energies of the people who 
have developed, and are still developing, its great resources 
with such rapidity and good effect. While encouraging the 
honourable and friendly rivalry now existing between East and 
West, as promotive of vitality and strong healthy action 
throughout the Colony, I will do what little I can to check such 
bitter jealousy or hostility as might precipitate Separation. If 
we are to have Separation or Federation — and we ought not to 
wish for either until convinced that we cannot live together — 
we can only separate successfully by separating peacefully, 
after the careful consideration of such w'ell-matured measures 
as will ensure our mutual independence and prosperity. The 
one end of the Colony will not secure any benefits for itself by 
-curtailing the privileges or attempting the ruin of the other." 
This open avowal of his determination to avoid associating 
himself with any party aroused opposition, and a keen contest 
ensued at the election. The result, however, was, that he was 
returned as the colleague of William Ayliff, Esq., as repre- 
sentative for Fort Beaufort. It is foreign to the purpose of this 
Memoir to enter upon a review of his political career ; it 
will suffice to give as extracts, the testimony of some of his 
contemporaries, with whom he had honourably crossed lances 
in the active struggle of political strife, and whose admiration 
of him at the last was affectionate and sincere. Mr. T. 
B. Glanville, writing of Mr. Thomson in the Graham's Town 
Journal, says : — " On his entrance upon political life, in the 
Graham's Town Session, some of his votes were unfavourable 
to what were considered to be Eastern interests, and he was 
freely censured by both the press and the public here. It was 
thought that he was a Western party-man, and an enemy of the 
province. During the next session, however, which was held 



XX111 



in Cape Town, and when the memorable debates on Annexation 
and Equalization took place, he proved himself to be one of the 
staunchest opponents of the West, and showed that, whether in 
Graham's Town or in Cape Town, he was determined to hold to 
his own opinions, and obey his own convictions, regardless of 
local influence. It was thus seen that he w T as no mere party- 
man, but a man true to himself, and to his own carefully-formed 
conception of duty and right. Mr. Thomson was, as far as 
territorial politics go, -neither an Eastern nor a Western ; but 
we believe that parties in both provinces will unite to lament 
his unexpected removal, and they will do so in the assur- 
ance that, while neither the partisan of one place or the 
other, he had at heart the interests of the Colony." The 
editor of the Caj>e Argus, in a memorial notice of Mr. Thom- 
son, similarly testifies : — " To his Parliamentary duties he 
brought a clear, well-trained intellect and a fearless and in- 
dependent spirit, and thorough honesty of purpose. He would 
never surrender his judgment on a single question to the dictates 
of his party. Though sent to Parliament by an Eastern Pro- 
vince constituency, and faithfully guarding their interests, he 
always refused to share in a party demonstration which he did 
not think founded in justice. He judged of every question on 
its own merits, and was as often found voting with the Western 
members as his own party. This independence of spirit often 
placed him in a neutral position, which was frequently of ser- 
vice in provincial discussions. His honesty was as conspicu- 
ous as his independence. No one ever charged Mr. Thomson 
with surrendering principle to policy, or with keeping silence 
when anything he did not think quite straightforward was 
going on. He hated trickery, and denounced any approach to 
it with unsparing language." 

After the close of the Parliamentary Session of 1864, Mr. 
Thomson visited his father's home at Hertzog, and spent two 
or three months very pleasantly amongst his friends in that 
neighbourhood, and in the adjoining district of Kaffraria. His 
occupation and plans at this time are given with unusual frank- 
ness in a letter addressed to the writer of these lines. He was 
written to on the subject of a vacant public appointment, for which 



xxiv 



his own qualification and suitability were suggested. He wrote in 
reply : — " You know my character pretty well, I think, — that I 
can work, and work well enough, too, if kept at it. But give rue 
the chance of dreaming away whole days, and you'll not get 
much out of me. I'd turn a very Kafir in indolence — only I'd 
lie in the shade and not bask in the sun (you can interpret this 
figuratively or literally as you choose). Wasn't it my poetic 
namesake, Jemmy Thomson, who used to lie on his back under 
the apple-trees and patiently wait till the fruit dropped into his 
mouth? — the wretch! And yet he wrote the 'Seasons,' and 
probably would not or could not have written them if he had 
not been so lazy. Well you know I make pretence to have 
inherited some sparks of his poetic fire as well as his lazi- 
ness. No, no, that office of would never do for me ; it 

would encourage me in star-gazing, mooning, and moping — 
that's all the good it would do me. And now to the rest of 
your letter — your kind inquiries regarding myself, my pros- 
pects and intentions. You know how subject I am to fits of 
despondency. You know some of the circumstances which have 
soured me, but you know, after all, very little of the sore sick- 
ness of heart which I have carried about for years. 4 The 
heart knoweth its own sorrows ;' what, after all, does it know 
of those of another ? I suppose I have got a fit of the ' blues' 
upon me now, for as I write I feel inclined to dash the pen into 
my heart instead of the ink-bottle. Why can't or won't we 
speak out the thoughts which lie at the very core of our nature 
to our dearest Mends ? But no more of this stuff. Your com- 
plimentary remarks about my entering the Church pained 
rather than xoleased me. I'll tell you why. Ever since I left 
Graham's Town, I have preached every Sunday, sometimes 
three times a day, here and elsewhere. I could not but notice 
— in fact I was for ever being told — that I did so with general 
acceptance. This, I believe, may have induced my over-fond 

father to inform Mr. M and others, that I may yet be 

induced to enter the Church. I must either do so, or stop 
preaching altogether. I won't — I can't do the former. What- 
ever qualifications of head and heart I may have for the mere 
profession of a minister.. I will not sin against God and my 



XXV 



conscience, and peril the spiritual welfare of myself and others, 
by the chance of unfaithfulness in the discharge of the most 
solemn and momentous duties which man can undertake. . . . 
What then, you will ask, am I doing, or do I intend to do ? 
I can scarcely say myself. My holiday has been a truly plea- 
sant and I trust a profitable one — mentally as well as physic- 
ally. I have laid up a fresh store of health, and have been 
learning much both here and in Kafirland. I have been greatly 
benefited myself, I know, and if I am to believe the evidences 
and assurances around me, I can indulge in at least the pleas- 
ing hope that my stay amongst them is not altogether un- 
pleasant and unprofitable to many around me. Besides assist- 
ing my father in his ministerial work, I have taken every 
opportunity of meeting all classes of the people and giving them 
such information and assistance as I could in their temporal 
interests. As one consequence, I believe I may say, without 
giving myself credit for any extraordinary tact or talent, that I 
am now as popular, not with ' Totties' alone, but with Eng- 
lish, Dutch, and coloured people, as a member well can be in 
such a mixed constituency. If I saw any means of supporting 
myself, however poorly, I would fain live and die working 
among and for the poor people in this settlement, doing what 
little I can to reconcile the differences and prejudices of 
class and colour. There is sad wrong done in our intercourse 
with the coloured classes. There is something radically wrong 
with our colonial system ; you must come to the Frontier to 
see that. Instead of supplementing each other, political and 
missionary influences are at variance — often diametrically op- 
posed to each other. Why is it a glaring fact, requiring no 
argument or proof, that we have polluted and degraded and not 
elevated the natives with whom we have come in contact ? Ex- 
termination would almost be a better and more merciful thing 
than the present slow course of poisoning. Your far too flatter- 
ing comparison with Pringle has excited anew and strengthened 
a desire which I have long cherished, to strive to write some- 
thing for and about this country in the same spirit, at least, 
which he did. While going about here and in Kafirland, I 
have not been altogether idle. I have been collecting materials 



xxvi 



for two distinct works, — one on the manners and customs of the 
Kafirs, their social and political life, and their moral and intel- 
lectual character and susceptibilities, illustrated with facts, 
anecdotes, incidents, and native tales and legends ; the other 
a tale of Frontier Colonial life, illustrative of the actual work- 
ings and results of our intercourse with the natives. There is 
abundance of good and fresh material, and if I can only pick, 
arrange, and present this with some literary skill, I might do a 
little towards verifying your kind words and anticipations." 

While contemplating and preparing to carry out these literary 
plans, he was requested by Government to serve as a member 
of the Commission of Inquiry into the relations of the Colony 
with the Native Tribes residing within and upon its borders. 
The other members associated with him were Messrs. Liddle, 
Warner, J. Ayliff, G. Wood, jun., J. C. Hoole, and the Eev. W. 
Impey. The Commission sat in Graham's Town, and their 
labours extended over two or three months. They collected a 
valuable amount of information, which is embodied in one of 
the most interesting Blue-Books submitted to our Colonial 
Legislature, and which has already been of much advantage in 
guiding opinions in regard to legislation on native affairs. 
This work being concluded, Mr. Thomson proceeded to Cape 
Town, and attended the long-protracted Session of Parliament 
which sat in 1865. 

Before the close of this year, Mr. Juta made proposals 
to him for writing a comprehensive History of the Cape 
Colony. This was a gratifying compliment to his literary 
efforts ; but he hesitated accepting of it until he was assured 
that the field of labour was one quite unoccupied. The late 
lamented Justice Watermeyer, whose lectures on the state of 
the Cape under the East India Company were looked upon as an 
instalment of a complete history of the Colony, removed from 
his mind the scruples which he had on that ground, and not 
only warmly encouraged him to enter upon the work, but offered 
him the valuable assistance which his acquaintance with the 
old records and authorities respecting the early settlement of the 
country could afford. Under these circumstances, he made 
arrangements for devoting himself to this new vocation, and 



XXV11 



entered upon it with much interest and earnestness. He was 
conscious of the importance of the task he had in hand, and 
that the labour of at least a year or two would be required to 
accomplish its completion. Meanwhile he had to look to 
other temporary occupations for supplementing his means 
of support, and for this, as formerly, he had to turn 
to the Press, to which he continued to contribute occasional 
articles. The provision this afforded was, however, but 
slender, and the uncertainty of his pecuniary prospects at 
this time had a depressing influence upon him ; as he 
himself expressed it, " unfitting him for any vigorous thought or 
action." In the Spring of 1866, some of his friends observed his 
depression of spirits, and evident ill-health, and advised him 
to take a trip to the frontier. This he adopted, and for a brief 
time visited his home at Hertzog. He did not remain there 
long, for invitations to deliver some of his lectures came from 
Somerset and other neighbouring towns, which he readily 
acceded to. He then returned to Cape Town to attend the 
Parliamentary Session which opened in September. To his 
friends it appeared that he had benefited very little by his 
excursion, and he himself complained of the effects of a cold 
which he had contracted by exposure in travelling one of the 
stages on his journey. But he entered on his Parliamentary 
duties with wonted interest, and occupied the intervals of his 
time in public writing and arranging the material for the Cape 
History. Other engagements were now offered to him, and he 
was preparing to enter upon them at the close of the year, 
when, shortly before Christmas, his health so completely broke 
down that he could not leave his room. On the 28th December, 
he was at length persuaded to consult his friend, Dr. Boss, for 
an alarming shortness of breathing. Inflammation of both 
lungs had by this time set in ; but by prompt treatment he was 
able, on New Year's Day, to sit up a little. On the 4th January, 
1867, he got a severe attack of shivering, which rapidly 
developed into an attack of bilious remittent fever, of the low 
nervous kind lately epidemic in Cape Town ; and he at once 
placed himself in the hands of Drs. Boss and Abercrombie, jun., 
who earnestly advised an immediate removal from town. After 



XXV111 



some little delay, lie acceded to their wishes by accepting a 
kindly invitation from his friend, Mr. G. W. Aitchison, to reside 
with him at Three Anchor Bay, Green Point. For the first 
four or five days, he obtained marked benefit from the change, 
being enabled to stroll down slowly to the beach ; but soon 
afterwards he had a relapse, and, in spite of the unwearied 
attentions of his medical advisers — whose indefatigable exer- 
tions on his behalf were by none so gratefully acknowledged as 
by the patient himself — he gradually became weaker and weaker. 

We now come to the closing scene. On the morning of the 
19th January, the medical gentlemen announced that they had 
little hope of his recovery. This intimation was received by 
him with wonderful serenity. He said he had for two or three 
days before felt that he was a dying man. He was much 
affected on allusion to his father and other members of his 
family, whose grief at his early death he seemed to anticipate ; 
but when his local friends came round him, to bid him a last 
farewell, he was impressively calm, although they were tearful 
and deeply agitated. In conversation with a friend and former 
fellow-student (the Eev. J. Hofmeyr) he stated that for four 
months before this he had been in a most unhappy state of 
mind, seeking rest and finding none, but that at last he had 
taken one leap into the arms of Jesus, and at once found 
rest and peace to his soul. And this rest continued un- 
disturbed, calm, and peaceful until the end. On the morning 
of the 19th, a message had been transmitted by electric 
telegraph to his father at Hertzog (a distance of near 700 
miles from Cape Town), informing him that all hope of 
his son's recovery was abandoned, and that he might 
not survive the night. To this a reply came in the even- 
ing. It contained the last words of the affectionate and 
sorrowing father to his dying son : — " Hertzog, 19th January. 
— My beloved son, — I wrote you by post. Eepeat my wishes 
for you. Have given and now give you over into the hands of 
God. May the presence of the Saviour cheer and support you 
in the dark valley. With the love of all here, farewell." He 
was deeply affected as this touching message was read to him, 
and after a little time he dictated a reply to his father in these 



xxix 



words : — " Tell him I look forward to death with great happi- 
ness. I have thrown myself into the arms of my Saviour; that 
I believe — believe I have found peace ; that death will be to me a 
passing into a happier world ; that I am happy ! happy ! perfectly 
happy ! Tell him he can have no conception what a sinner I 
was ; but I believe Christ has washed away everything, and I 
am perfectly at peace." He continued in the same frame of 
mind for nearly a week, frequently giving expression to the 
peace and joy with which he was possessed. 

The Eev. G. Morgan, of St. Andrew's Church, Cape 
Town, who w r as almost daily with him, gives the follow- 
ing testimony of his last days : — " When I first saw him, 
about a week before his death, he was exceedingly weak in 
body, but in the full possession of his mental faculties. His 
own impressions had been confirmed by the announcement 
that, humanly speaking, there was no hope of his recovery. 
This , was just what he seemed to desire. Not only the words 
which he uttered, but the expressive smile on his countenance, 
and the very tones of his voice, indicated a peace of mind that 
passeth understanding, and a hope full of immortality. All 
unbelieving doubts and fears had passed away, and he could talk 
of nothing else than the unspeakable love and mercy of God, 
the preciousness of Christ, the efficacy of His atoning blood, 
and the anticipated glory and happiness of the heavenly state. 
He loved to hear small portions of the Scriptures read ; and he 
delighted to dwell especially on such familiar but sublime 
passages as these : — ' God so loved the world that He gave His 
only-begotten Son, &c. ' Come unto Me all ye that labour and 
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest < This is a faithful 
saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came 
into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief ' The 
blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin ' 1 know that my 
Eedeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon 
the earth ;' 'It doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we 
know that when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we 
shall see Him as He is;' '0 death, where is thy sting? 
grave, where is thy victory ?' On Wednesday (the 23rd 
January), there were still some slight hopes of his recovery, 



XXX 



and he himself thought it possible that he might be spared 
for some time. He was, however, quite reconciled to the 
will of God, and was willing to live or die, as might be most 
to His glory. On Wednesday night, he slept a good deal, and 
whenever he awoke he again spoke of the unspeakable love 
of God, the preciousness of Christ, and the happiness that 
awaited him in heaven. Even when asleep he appeared to be 
dreaming of heavenly things, and at one time he broke out in 
an eloquent strain of thanksgiving and praise. In the early 
part of the evening, I read and prayed with him as usual, he 
himself joining with great fervour and delight. But seeing that 
he was very weak in body, and that his mind was enjoying 
perfect rest, I did not enter into conversation with him. On 
Friday forenoon, I saw that he had evidently been losing ground 
— his physical strength was nearly exhausted, and his mind 
was less active than before. He said almost nothing, except 
that all was well with him. During the early part of the even- 
ing he was rather restless, but afterwards became quiet, and 
seemed to sleep pretty well. He was quite conscious, and 
asked for his medicines, &c. ; but beyond repeating what he 
had said before, respecting the state of his soul, he scarcely 
uttered a word. I left him on Saturday morning, w T ith little or 
no hope of seeing him again, and on Saturday evening I was 
told that he had fallen asleep in Jesus." He thus entered into 
his rest on the evening of the 26th January, 1867. 

The news of his death called forth a general expression of 
regret throughout the Colony. The press of all sections 
deplored his early removal as a public loss, and the eulogiums 
pronounced upon him showed that, brief as his career had been, 
he had struck deep root, not merely in the affection of many 
attached friends, but in the confidence of the community 
generally. This was remarkable, considering how quietly and 
modestly he moved about amongst men. His personal appear- 
ance was more strictly youthful than impressive. In stature 
he was short, although well formed. His features were swarthy, 
but regular ; and when lit up by the bright gleam in his 
sparkling eyes, and the smile which often played about his lips, 
had a peculiarly sweet attractiveness. He was exquisitely 



xxxi 



sensitive, but be rarely sbowed any irritability or anger ; bis 
temper was calm and unresentful in a high degree. With these 
qualities, however, there was combined no small measure of 
firmness and decision ; and once he had formed his opinion 
upon any matter, it was vain to endeavour to move him from 
the position he had taken up. In domestic and social life he 
was generally cheerful and genial ; but there were occasions 
when, even amongst his most intimate friends, he would main- 
tain a silent reserve for hours together, and then, as some 
casual remark served to break the ice, he would give way to a 
flow of brilliant talk, gleaming with anecdotes full of quaint 
wit and humour. Although quietly conscious of his own talents, 
he was free from anything like pedantry, and keenly averse to 
display. Any service which he could render to forward a good 
work, or to help a friend, was readily and ungrudgingly given, 
and a thorough unselfishness characterised all his acts. Of his 
literary abilities, his poetic feelings, his cultivated taste, his 
keen and discriminating observation, and his power of graceful 
narration, the reader will judge by the selection from his fugitive 
writings which are given in these pages. The Editor is conscious 
that there are many which the author would have omitted, but he 
believes that the reader will be better pleased, and be more able 
to judge of our lamented friend's talents, by the variety of the 
collection. It was our and others fond hope that these youthful 
productions would be followed by more important works, w r hich 
would be of lasting service to his country. But, alas ! to our 
sorrow, but his gain, he was suddenly summoned away from all 
earthly engagements and pursuits. " One great consolation," 
writes a relative * — " the greatest consolation of all which, 
under such a loss, can be enjoyed — has not been withheld from 
his father and friends. If earthly expectations in reference to 
him have been so far doomed to disappointment, all the brighter 
and more cheering has been the hope given regarding the time- 
less life that is beyond the grave. The setting of his sun was 
indeed a blessed and glorious rising. One can hardly speak of 
the shadow of death closing in around him, for in truth, just at 



* The Rev. Eobert Smith. 



XXX11 



that moment the day broke, and all the shadows fled away. If 
it was the eventide of a perishable life, it was the morning 
dawn of the life that will never end. Looking therefore at the 
facts of the case, and without exaggeration, must we not say 
that it was not Death which triumphed here, but Life — not 
darkness, but light — not disappointment, but hope — a hope 
assured, and already tasting by anticipation the coming glory ?" 

Mr. Thomson's remains were followed to the grave, in the 
English Cemetery, Cape Town, on the afternoon of the 28th 
January, by a large company of sorrowing friends. The place 
where he is laid* is marked by a chaste white marble monu- 
ment, bearing the following inscription : — 

EKECTED 

BY 
MEMBERS 
OF THE 
LEGISLATURE 
AND 

OTHER FRIENDS, 
TO THE 
MEMORY OF 
WILLIAM RODGER THOMSON, 
M.L.A., 
AS AN EXPRESSION 
OF 

PERSONAL AFFECTION 
FOR ONE WHOSE 
EARLY REMOVAL 
WAS A 
PUBLIC LOSS ; 

AND IN 
ADMIRATION OF 
HIS MANY TALENTS 
AND VIRTUES. 
HE DIED 
ON THE 
26TH JANUARY, 1867, 
AGED 34 YEARS, 
IN THE FAITH 
AND HOPE 
OF THE GOSPEL OF CHRIST. 



XXX111 



The following tribute to his memory was written by his 
brother-poet, the late Major George Longmore,* on reading the 
announcement of his death : — 

Too early lost ! Ah ! wherefore then did Heaven, 

Which seldom to this sterile earth had given 
A brighter Spirit (teeming with a mind 
Form'd to instruct and elevate mankind), 
Snatch it away 'ere yet its radiant sun 
One-half the orbit of its course had run ? 

Too early lost ! Like to some brilliant flower, — 

'Till now conceal'd within its humble bower, 
Which has scarce offer'd to each passer's gaze 
Those charms deserving of delight and praise, — ■ 
Finds suddenly a rude blast 'midst its bloom 
And all its promise, sweep it to the tomb ! 

Ah ! little do the volatile and gay, 

Who roam along the world's tumultuous way, 

Pause in their path to grant reflection's sigh 

On those Heav'n dooms in youth's career to die. 

Yet, here was one, whose soul's ennobling aim 

May well each tribute of affection claim ; 

In whom devotion for a country's good 

And all its sons, was ardently pursued 

With honest purpose, void of state-craft's art, 

Felt friendship's glow join'd to a Christian's heart. 

Oh ! let the Muse, controlling with her power 

Man's softer feelings in this solemn hour, 

The pitying tribute of his sorrows crave, 

And bid his memory mourn o'er Thomson's grave ! 



* Author of the ''Pilgrim of Faith" and other poems, who died in 
August, 1867. 



ERRATUM. 



On page 73, fourth verse, and fourth line, for u learned 
to learn" read 66 learn? d to leave" 



OEIGINAL POEMS. 



Dich uenn ich nicht. Zwar hor' ich dich von vielen 
Gar oft genannt, und jeder heisst dich sein, 
Ein jedes Auge glaubt auf dich zu zielen, 
Fast jedem Auge wird dein Strahl zur Pein. 

Goethe. 



CAPE OF GOOD HOPE. 



There is a land, unknown to fame, 
A land whose heroes have no name 
In the grey records of past age ; 
Unchronicled in hist'ry's page, 
Untamed by art, yet wild and free, 
That land lies in the Southern sea — 
It laughs to heav'n, which smiles on it ; 
There midway in wild waters set, 
With suns serene, and balmier breeze 
Than ever swept these Northern seas, 
Its beetling crags rise vast, and war 
With oceans, meeting from afar, 
To break their billows on its shore, 
With fearful, never-ending roar. 

Bold mariners, who sail'd of old 

Through unknown seas, in search of gold, 

Saw those dark rocks, those giant forms, 

And, fear-quell'd, named them " Cape of Storms." 

land of storms, I pine to hear 
That music which made others fear ; 

1 long to see thy storm-fiend scowl, 
I long to hear the fierce winds howl, 
Hot with fell fires, across thy plains. 

Thou glorious land ! where Nature reigns 
Supreme in awful loveliness, 
shall thy exiled son not bless 
Those hills and dales of thine, where first 
He roam'd a careless child ; where burst 
b a 



4 



Thy tropic splendour on his eye ; 
Where days were spent, whose mem'ries lie 
Deep 'neath all after-thought and care, 
Yet rise more buoyant than the air, 
And float o'er all his days ? home 
Of beauty rare, where I did roam 
In childhood's golden days, my pray'r 
For thee soars through this Northern air. 

Land of " Good Hope !" thy future lies 
Bright 'fore my vision as thy skies ! 
Africa ! long lost in night, 
Upon the horizon gleams the light 
Of breaking dawn. Thy star of fame 
Shall rise and brightly gleam ; thy name 
Shall blaze on hist'ry's later page ; 
Thy birth-time is the last great age ; 
Thy name has been, slave of the world ; 
But, when thy banner is unfurl'd, 
Triumphant Liberty shall wave 
That standard o'er foul slav'ry's grave, 
And earth — decaying earth — shall see 
Her freest, fairest child in thee ! 

Utrecht, 1856. 



WHERE ABE THEY? 



Where is she, the tender-hearted ? 
Mother dear ! in vain we call ! 
Death did throw his fun'ral pall 
O'er her, and she heav'nward darted 
Long ago — and left us here, 
Weeping, weeping, o'er her bier, 



5 



Many a sad but hopeful tear ! 
Ah ! how fearfully we started, 
When the coffin from the hall, 
With us all, 
Old and small, 

On its mournful way departed 
To the church-yard old ! 
Where the earth so cold, 
Heavily 
Fell on thee, 
Mother, mother dear ! 

Where are they whose footsteps patter'd, 

Joyous in the days of yore, 

O'er the old paternal floor ? 

Where are they who laugh' d and chatter' d, 

Dancing down Life's new-found way — 

Youthful, dutiful, and gay ? 

Where are they, where are they ? 

Besting in the grave ! or scatter' d 

Ne'er to meet, ah, nevermore ! 

By that door, 

Whence before 

They all issued — to be batter'd 

Like poor barks at sea, 

Till eternity 

Oped its womb, 

And, in gloom, 

Made them fade away ! 



B 3 



6 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 



Meine Lebenszeit verstreicht, Stiindlich eil ich zu dem Grabe. — Gellert. 

In Autumn, when a gentle breeze 
Sighs through the weary, dying trees, 
I love to walk some silent lane, 
And watch the thick and golden rain 
Which showers on me from above, 
And thins the sadly moaning grove. 
— And often then my spirit grieves, 
As I tread o'er the crisped leaves 
Which carpet all the yellow ground, 
And rustle with a mournful sound 
Whene'er I harshly push my foot, 
And stumble o'er some hidden root. 

Oft, walking thus in reverie, 
Kind Nature seems to speak to me 
In accents sad as sad can be : 
" child of Earth ! the spring is gone ! 
And summer's glory too is done ; 
Now autumn takes what fruit I have, 
And strips me for my yearly grave. 
Soon winter's snow shall chill thy feet, 
As thou walk'st o'er my winding sheet. 
child of Earth ! have vernal show'rs 
Nourish' d for thee no summer bow'rs, 
'Neath which to sit, and meditate 
O'er all the sweet and sad of Fate ? 
Of Fate ! nay ! of Providence ? 
Which form'd and guideth ev'ry sense 



7 



And attribute of man. think, 
Spring is the sowing time ; each chink 
Of Youth's short time can bear a seed 
For some great, good, and noble deed. 

child of Earth ! use well thy spring, 
And summer shall rich increase bring, 
Ere harvest -time can strip thy crown 
Of life — grown like a tree. Ere flown 
Are days of spring, may aught be done 
To ripen in thy summer sun ! 
— child of Earth ! use so thy spring, 
That, when thy fun'ral knell shall ring, 
And Death, great reaper, bares his knife 
To sever thy frail stem of life, 
Fruit, and not leaves alone, may fall, 
To scent and cover up the pall 
Which men shall spread o'er thee, and bear 
Thee to thy winter's tomb ! — there 
May many speak thus o'er thy grave : 
' Here rest the leaves, the fruit we have ; 
Soon the last trumpet's note shall ring, 
And wake these to undying spring !' " 

And oft, thus wand'ring through the wood, 

In melancholy, dreamy mood, 

I've seen a troop of children gay, 

There in the autumn sunshine play, 

And romp among the golden leaves : 

Ah me ! such sight me oft-times grieves ; 

Their merry laughter rings so clear, 

And echoes through the woodland near ; — 

But ah ! e'en ere the spring has come, 

Death may have enter 'd some bright home, 

And stolen thence a tender flow'r, 

Now sporting in that golden show'r 

Which autumn rains ; and spring's first breeze 

May whisper through the church-yard trees, 



8 



And fan the ruddy cheeks of boys 
Who have forgotten former joys, 
And walk there o'er the tear-fed ground ; 
And, silent all, point to the mound 
Where rests the little friend who played 
With them in autumn's golden shade. 

And oft, thus walking through some grove, 

I've seen two beings knit in love, 

There wand'ring in a lovely lane, 

And on them fell the golden rain 

Of dying leaves. Ah ! oft 'tis so — 

Some angry, fitful blast may blow, 

And sever those who loved so well ! 

Pale winter then shall sound Love's knell 

Within the loveless, frozen heart, 

Which dreamt not love could thence depart. 

Yea, oft, thus wand'ring on alone, 

When sunset's golden mist was thrown 

Around the yellow, dying trees — 

The hour when the wanderer sees 

That earth, and air, and water melt 

In the sun's last embrace — I've felt 

As if 'twere good to die, if death 

Were beautiful as all beneath 

That setting sun, which died away 

In greater beauty than the day 

Could spread to view. — Such death is lent 

To those whose lives have been well spent. 

child of Earth ! use so thy spring, 

That — when thy fun'ral knell shall ring, 

And Death, great reaper, bears his knife 

To sever thy frail stem of life — 

Fruit, and not leaves alone, may fall 

To scent and cover up the pall 

Which men shall spread o'er thee, and bear 



9 



Thee to thy winter's tomb. there 
May many speak thus o'er thy grave : 
" Here rest the leaves, the fruit we have ; 
Soon the last trumpet's note shall ring, 
And wake these to undying spring !" 



MUSIC. 

(TO MISS M. B.) 



Die Musica ist eine Gabe und Geschenk Gottes, nicht em 
Menschen-Geschenk. — Luther. 

In Paradise, when life began, 

Stretch'd 'neath some luscious-fruited tree, 
Whose boughs a beauteous roof did span 
O'er his prime couch, our parent-man 

Heard glorious melody. 

Music first learn' d his waking pow'rs 

From winds, which spirit-like did roam, 
And, wooing sweets from Eden's flow'rs, 
Sigh'd, perfume-laden, through the bow'rs 
Which form'd his pristine home. 

And from the leafy woods there rung 

Strange voices — which he loved when heard, 
Yet knew not whence they came ; his tongue 
Moved, and his parted lips forth-flung 
A soul-breathed sigh — a word ! 



10 



And — starting at the sound — he fled ; 

Then stopp'd — for like an echo came 
The same sound — softer far — and, led 
By new desire, he onward sped — 

Saw Eve — and breathed her name. 

She answer' d ; — and he stood spell-bound ! 

Heard the sweet tone, and felt a pow'r 
Within, which shaped the pleasing sound 
To something understood — then found 

Speech as his noblest dow'r. 

And from that hour was music known ; 

Of arts, most pleasing one, since taught 
By Nature's self. As Time has flown, 
Man, changing man, has ne'er outgrown 

The spell which Eve's voice wrought. 

All earth is musical ; — the roll 

Of heav'n's grand harmony in flame 
Is writ at night ! — When man's rapt soul 
Koams through the stars, from pole to pole, 
He hears them shout God's name ! 

For, not in discord are they flung 
Through universal space ; each one 

Turns to the centre whence it sprung ; 

And systems all, in order hung, 
Koll round Jehovah's throne ! 

There's music in the thunder's roar, 

A voice in ocean's moan ; when waves 
Kise o'er the doomed ship, out-pour 
Its wreck upon the startled shore, 
And spot the sand with graves ! 



11 



There's gentler music in the gale 

Which, when the south- wind blows, 
Spreads o'er the earth a vernal veil, 
And greens afresh each hill and dale, 
Long w T rapp'd in winter's snow. 

It whispers through the budding trees, 

The leaves burst flutt'ring forth, obey 
The measure of the sighing breeze : 
The sunshine feels it on the seas, 
And breaks in sparkling play. 

And Art has mimic' d Nature well ! 

Who has not felt a magic wand 
Waved o'er him with all potent spell, 
When music, with soul-stirring swell, 

Eoll'd from some skilful hand? 

Ah ! Lady, thine's a subtle art! 

Which, with its kingly sceptre, sways 
Each list'ning ear and throbbing heart ; 
Bids man act many a varied part, 

And, pow'rless, he obeys. 

When o'er the notes thy fingers go, 

All passions seem to wait thy call ; 
Love, wrath, and pity, joy or woe, 
Eise, sink — yet how, we scarcely know ; 
Thy touch controls them all. 

musical then be thy life ! 

Strange wish, thou'lt say, but, lady fair, 
Earth is a battle-field, where strife 
And discord in all hearts are rife : 

gentle maid — beware. 



12 



Hearts are like lyres, whose tender chords, 
Well-touch'd, give sweetest harmony ; 

Which flows in thoughts, in deeds, in words ; 

But — there are strings which cut like swords, 
If touched unskilfully. 

be thy soul a lyre divine ! 

Well- tuned to man, and God above ! 
The key-note of Christ's law be thine — 
Thy " Psalm of Life" — 'tis but a line: 

" God, and thy neighbour — love." 



DAY-DEE AMS. 



Day-dreams ! yea, such there are, I ween ; 
Who has not felt their pow'r ? They've been 
Our friends since childhood. When the mind 
First learn' d to fashion thought, they lined 
The chambers of that wondrous frame 
Call'd Self, with forms of light ; a name 
They gave to aspirations and desires 
Which thrill' d our youthful hearts. The fires 
They waked and nourish'd may have waned, 
When Reason searclrd our souls ; but pain'd 
Our hearts shall feel for evermore, 
When we dream o'er the dreams of yore. 

Fair maiden, have such waking dreams 
Shed o'er thy youth their rainbow-beams ? 
Has Fancy — sporting with thy mind — 
Ne'er made thy colder reason blind, 
And led thee wand'ring on through way-, 
Untrodden yet, and told thee chiys 



13 



Of blissful happiness shall crown 
The sorrows which, mayhap, had thrown 
Dark gloom o'er present toil ? Has Hope 
Ne'er led thee on, and made thee grope 
For pleasures which the future veils 
From Eeason's eye ? When grief assails 
Thee — when the heaving, burden'd breast 
Throbs with the woe which will not. rest, 
Mayhap, just then, a waking dream 
Flits, like a transient radiant gleam, 
Athwart thy darken'd soul, and cheers 
Thy longing eyes — suffused with tears. 
And are such day-dreams e'er fulfill'd ? 

Fair maid ! perchance thy heart has thrill 'd 
To Love's fond touch ; — perchance thy brain 
Has conjured up that form again 
Which thou hast seen in days of yore ; 
Perchance thy lone heart, sick and sore, 
In day-dreams wander' d on to days 
When love, with hundred winning ways, 
Would banish past regrets, and pour 
Its secrets out to one who bore 
True love for thee ; when loving hearts, 
Melting in one, would draw the darts 
Which separation fix'd in each ; 
When silent eyes and lips would preach, 
And hear from silent lips and eyes, 
More love than fondest words and sighs 
Could tell in hours of loneliness. 
Search your own heart, and you'll confess 
Such day-dreams visit us in youth ; 
Fair maid ! say, are they e'er made truth ? 



14 



HOPE. 



Hope, in the morning, rear'd a pile 
Which, ere the evening, fell, 

And, in its ruin, buried all 

The joy which there would dwell. 

Hope, in the spring-time, water' d flow'rs 

"Which perish'd in the bud, 
And died ere yet the summer- sun 

Pour'd forth its quick'ning flood. 

Hope, in the summer, smiled on flow'rs, 
Which shed their perfumed leaves, 

And bore no fruit to soothe the heart, 
Which for their fading grieves. 

Hope, in the autumn, gather' d fruit 

Most beautiful and fair, 
But ah ! 'twas poison to the soul, 

Or rottenness lurk'd there ! 

Hope, in the winter, long'd for spring — 
A spring which never came ! 

But winter-winds moan drearily, 
And sigh the long-lost name ! 

Hope, in the evening, spied a land, 

A far-off, sunny shore ; 
She long'd to reach that land, and — die ! 

In heav'n Hope lives no more. 



15 



BATTLE OF BEEESINA. 



Hast thou heard of Beresina, 

Where the hosts of France were slain ; 
Hast thou heard of that dread river 

Which ran blood unto the main ; 
'Tis a tale of fearful horrors, 

Horrors I can hardly tell, 
For, my blood runs cold within me, 

When I think how many fell 
In the raging of the battle, 

Or the river's icy swell. 

'Twas the very depth of winter, 

'Twas so piercing, piercing cold, 
That the nails dropped off our fingers, 

And our hands no arms could hold. 
White the ground was underneath us, 

Dark the heav'ns were overhead, 
When we came to Beresina, 

By our great commander led ; 
And right many chiefs and soldiers 

By that river fell down dead. 

Kussia's hosts pressed hard behind us, 

And in front the stream did roar ; 
Oh ! such slaughter there I witness'd 

As was never seen before ! 
For there rose the crash of battle 

Wild upon the midnight air, 
As the foe came down upon us, 

And we fought with mad despair — 



16 



Not like men, but very demons, 

By our watch-fires' fitful glare. 
Down they drove us through the snow-drifts, 

Down upon the narrow bridge, 
Where the dead in heaps were lying 

By that river's gory edge. 
Men and horses, wives and children, 

Shrieked from out those ghastly mounds ; 
But we waded through the blood-pools, 

And we heeded not their wounds. 
Ah ! that fearful hellish shrieking, 

Still upon my ears it sounds. 

Then the terrors of our passage 

O'er that bridge, all streaming blood ! 
Cannons, chariots, thick went crushing 

O'er our bodies where we stood, 
Thousands sprang, of life despairing, 

Down into the blood-red stream ; 
And their cries rose from the waters 

In one wild appalling scream, 
As the ice went tossing o'er them 

With a ghastly lurid gleam. 

Full ten thousand left we sunken 

In those fatal waves that night, 
Full ten thousand down were stricken 

In that fierce and deadly fight. 
Twenty thousand Gallic soldiers 

On that awful night were slain, 
Twenty thousand Gallic soldiers 

Ne'er saw sunny France again. 
Small and shatter' d was the remnant 

That e'er reach' d the other side, 
Broken fragments of that army 

Once our lordly empire's pride, 
Heav'n was leagued with man against us 

In that fruitless, sad campaign ; 



17 



For, on bleak and dreary deserts 
Of the mighty Czar's domain, 

Twice two hundred thousand soldiers 
Fell down ne'er to rise again. 



WHO? 



She is fair as the night, when the soft-shining light 

Of moon and of stars is ablaze ; 
She is bright as the sun when the day is begun, 

When morn dips in dew-drops his rays. 

Her hair is as gold which at even is rolled 

Kound the sun as he sinks in the seas ; 
'Tis silken and soft as the gossamer, oft 

Borne aloft on the faint-blowing breeze. 

Her brow is a throne ; not graces alone, 

But a majesty reigns on that brow ; 
So calmly serene, ne'er another I've seen — - 

I would not, but must 'fore it bow. 

Her eyes, ! her eyes are as deep as the skies ; 

I have gazed in their depths but too long ; 
I have swooned in their light, they have dazzled my sight, 

And now blinded I walk through the throng. 

Yet never, I ween, were such soft eyes seen ; 

Ah ! me, they have melted my heart ; 
Now lone and forlorn for its loss I mourn, 

And but wish that with her's she would part. 

The lily and rose together disclose 

All their charms on that sweet tender face ; 

I thought that her blush was beauty's best flush 
Till her pallor displayed a new grace. 



18 



Her lips are the home round which graces roam, 

And which ever — but ah ! 'tis in vain ! 
How describe in a line all the wealth of a mine, 

Though her image is burned on my brain ? 

And I think but of her, and to her still recur 

All the dreams which revisit my sleep ; 
For she comes in the night like a vision of light, 

And I wake up with thoughts far too deep 

For these poor silly words, which but whisper the chords 

Of the music she's waked in my soul ; 
Ah ! for ever it sounds, and yet ever it wounds, 

For e'en Hope dare not look to the goal 

Where I'll stand at her side, and call her my bride, 
Mine alone through all Life unto Death ; 

For the future is dark, and the strongest built bark 
Cannot sail o'er the rocks underneath 

The calm smiling sea, which a grave yet may be 
At the moment when Hope just exclaims : 

See, the haven is there ; but your death-bed is here, 
Cries the Angel whom Hope never names. 

On me she has smiled ; but a smile has beguiled 

Many hearts to their ruin and doom, 
Many looks have vowed Love, would that these could not 

For the heart may prove cold as the tomb. 



LOVE'S SEASONS. 



Like the year Love has its seasons, 
Like the year its changing moods : 

Spring and Summer, with'ring Autumn, 
"Winter with its leafless woods. 



19 



First comes Spring, with Hope's young blossoms, 

When our love is yet untold, 
When before us gleams the Future, 

Like a shining way of gold. 

Then no gloomy fancies vex us, 
For our love makes all things fair ; 

Then we never dream of sorrows, 
But — hope on, and ne'er despair. 

Then comes Summer, when the blossoms 

Of our love have open'd wide, 
And our pent-up feelings, gushing, 

Bush forth like a swelling tide. 

But oft Autumn's shadowy sorrows 

Veil like clouds our sunny sky, 
Then the flowers of Hope fall wither'd, 

But — like rose-leaves when they die — 

Still a fragrance lingers o'er them, 

And the silly, woeful heart 
Dreams sometimes it still is Summer : — 

Memory stays, though hopes depart. 

Thus, all crushed in dreamy languor, 

Pines the weary soul away, 
While the jo} 7 s of Summer's brightness, 

Mock the sorrows of to-day. 

Then the cold despair of Winter, 
When the heart is chill' d with grief, 

When the soul in tearless anguish, 
Seeks, but cannot find relief. 

When the phantoms of past gladness 

Flit across the midnight gloom, 
And the soul in horror flees them, 

And — longs for the silent tomb. 

C 2 



20 



THE STRICKEN SOLDIER.* 



Calm was the morn, that Sabbath morn, 

No sign of storm was there ; 
The sun shone bright, with God's dear light, 

Down through the hallowed air. 

The crowds upwent, with hearts intent 

To hear the holy word ; 
The preacher came, came to proclaim 

Jesus his heav'nly Lord. 

Through the hush'd air the sound of pray'r 
Breathed out in solemn tone ; 

Then sacred lays, the people's praise, 
S well'd upwards to God's throne. 

Then ceased all sound, within the bound 

Of that meek village -shrine. 
The preacher rose, few words he chose, 

Chose from the Book divine. 

With beaming face, and simple grace, 

The village-pastor spake 
Pure words of love — such words as move, 

And surest echoes wake. 



* Upon a Sabbath, in the autumn of the year 1855, a fearful thunder- 
storm burst over the village of Opheusden in Gelderland. The Kev. A. van 
Herwaarden was preaching to his congregation in the village church, when a 
vivid flash of lightning entered the church, struck the preacher dead, and 
passed under the pulpit, without committing farther damage. 



21 



The sun serene shone on that scene, 

That scene of sanctity ; 
And angels bright gazed on that sight 

Of rural piety. 

But — hush, hush ! hark ! the heav'ns grow dark ! 

A voice conies from the sky ! 
The church-tow'rs shake, the people quake — 

God comes in majesty ! 

From the black cloud, which, like a shroud, 

Hung o'er the trembling pile, 
The lightning beam'd, and fearful gleamed ; 

The preacher paused awhile. 

Again a flash ! and with a crash 

The God- sent lightning sped ; 
The thunder peal'd, the preacher reeled, 

And bow'd his stricken head. 

With fear amazed, the people gazed, 
And, awe-struck, held their breath ; 

Vanish'd the glare, they saw him there : 
His eyes were seal'd in death ! 

Wrapp'd in its shroud, that chariot cloud, 

With flaming fire-bolts riv'n, 
On thund'ring wheels, with echoing peals, 

Bore up his soul to heav'n ! 

wretched sheep ! at one fell sweep 

Without a shepherd left ! 
His blacken' d clay there ghastly lay, 

Of life and soul bereft. 

Mourn for the dead ! the stricken dead ! 

Who bore his banner high ; 
And, sword in hand, at God's command 

Was borne up to the sky. 

c 3 



22 



THE DOM-CHUECH OF UTKECHT. 



glorious pile ! that risest up so great, 

So lone, so awe-inspiring ; seeming still 

To grow as I do look on thee ! — Ah why 

Dost thon thus chain my spirit to thy walls, 

As with a spell omnipotent, and draw 

Mine eyes, tearful, up to thy pinnacles, 

And thence towards heav'n, till, silently, I pray'd 

To the great Deity whose shrine thou art ? 

— Through circling hours, by day, by night, I've gazed 

With a sad joy on thee ; I've seen at morn 

The young sun greeting thee, ere yet his rays 

Gladden' d the dewy earth, and off ring first 

His smile to thy great hoary tow'r, whilst yet 

Black night was brooding in thy cloister' d halls. 

At bright noonday his blazing beams, cast back 

In many colours from thy plains of glass, 

Have dazzled my fix'd gaze. At eve I've watch'd 

Thy shadow creeping on, and darkening 

The city's distant streets, whilst parting rays 

Of light still glimmer'd on thy spires, and veil'd 

Thy carved splendours in a mist of gold. 

— And when the sun went down, high in mid-air, 

The vane which crowns thy mighty tow'r still flung 

Soft light abroad, and seem'd to hail the star 

Venus, firstborn of night, as sister orb. 

— I've gazed entranced, till envious night came down 

And quench'd that star ; and in thick gloom enwrapp'd 

The giant tow'r, whose base, still visible, 

Propp'd up the viewless masonry, which lost 

All substance, shape, in the dark vault above : 

And then, awe-struck, I've heard low wailing sounds, 

Which came from bells high in the air unseen 



23 



Clapping their iron tongues ; and then great throbs 

Of sound burst on the vocal air, and toll'd 

The solemn, midnight hour of mystery. 

— The moon I've watch'd, as silver lines she traced 

Along thy buttresses ; as, like a ghost, 

She stole among thy ruin'd walls ; and stars 

Hanging have seen, like fairy lamps, high up 

Under the traceries of thy rich dome. 

— O'er tombstones of a thousand years, which pave 

Thy echoing aisles, I've walk'd — and thought 

With woeful sorrow of the many men 

Who came with tears to lay their friends and kin 

Under the stones whereon I stood, and then 

Themselves were laid there too ! — Pensive I've walk'd 

O'er hecatombs of bones, all crumbling there 

Beneath th' eternal walls, which chronicle 

The littleness of those who rear'd them ! — Yea 

The pious crowds, thronging thy doors, I've seen 

Go up to pray where once their fathers pray'd — 

Ah ! soon they too must sleep beneath thy stones ! 

I've heard the deep-toned organ pealing forth 

Waves upon waves of sound, bearing aloft 

Man's soul in hymns of praise, and wafting it 

Up to God's throne. 

All this I've seen, I've heard ; 
And ever still— great, hoary, dying pile ! 
Art thou to be a dread solemnity — 
A mystery — a voiceless spirit from 
The world of Good — which fascinates, and breathes 
O'er me a magic spell ! Thoughts, holy, calm 
And beautiful, rush on my soul the while 
I gaze on thee ! — The rushing stream can find 
No vent in words, but, brimming o'er, 
Buns from mine eyes in intermingling tears 
Of sorrowing and joy. 



24 



THE BAPTISM OF THE DEAD.* 



Oh ! who shall paint that poor man's joy, 
When his first child was born ? 

Oh ! who shall tell the mother's tears, 
Upon that natal morn ? 

Long had they hoped to see this day, 
Long were their hopes beguiled ; 

At last the joyous day has come, 
The mother bears a child. 

Oh ! who shall tell what pleasant hours 

Were spent in sweet dispute, 
When father, mother, strove to find 

A name for that dear mute ? 

Oft had they fixed the name before, 

But now they strive anew ; 
The mother still insists : " Dear love, 

He shall be called from you." 

The father says : " No, wife, he'll bear 
Your father's honoured name ; 

When you give me a second son, 
Then will I urge my claim." 

The mother wins, 'tis fixed at last, 
His father's name he'll bear ; 

And for the baptism mother hastes 
The white robes to prepare. 



* Founded upon an event which occurred in a country parish in Holland. 



25 



The village bell is tinkling clear 

Through the cold frosty air, 
And calling cottagers from far 

Unto the house of prayer. 

The little babe is dressed with care, 

In robes white as the snow ; 
And o'er the snows and o'er the ice, 

To church the parents go. 

Cold blows the wind, white lies the snow 

Upon the unseen ground ; 
The prisoned river frets and toils, 

Fast in its ice-chains bound. 

" Oh ! wrap him warm from wind and storm, 

And let us speed our way ; 
The road we go lies thick with snow, 

Take care of him, I pray." 

The mother wraps her infant warm, 

And folds him to her breast ; 
And father proudly looks on them — 

To-day so well they're dress'd. 

" The way is long, the wind is cold, 

Oh ! wrap the darling warm ; 
Let not the fierce blast touch his cheek, 

Oh ! let him get no harm." 

The mother wraps him closer still, . 

Prom the cold biting air ; 
And fast they speed, through wind and storm, 

Unto the house of pray'r. 

They reach the little village church, 

And, entering at the door, 
The father walked with manlier grace 

Than e'er he walk'd before. 



26 



Poor man, lie feels so rich and proud, 

To bring his wife and child 
To church ; the neighbours shared his pride, 

And pleasantly they smiled. 

They love the man, they love his wife, 

They love the little son ; 
And all have come to church to see 

The holy service done. 

The minister comes in and reads 

The holy hymn of praise ; 
The father with a swelling heart, 

His quiv'ring voice doth raise ; 

And fondly looks upon his child, 

And then looks up to heav'n ; 
And pours his psalm of thanks to God, 

Who this great gift hath given. 

The mother's eyes grow moist with tears, 

She bends her o'er her boy ; 
Her heart too full of praise for tongue 

To chaunt out all her joy. 

The cold wind creeps into the church, 

The father whispers still : 
" Oh ! wrap the darling warm, I pray, 

The air is damp and chill." 

The mother answers with a smile, 
And looks up through her tears, 

And folds her darling to her heart, 
And stills the father's fears. 

The sermon done, the minister 

Speaks to the parents now : 
" Stand up before God's people here, 

And let them hear your vow. 



27 



" You promise both to love this babe, 

"Whom God to you has given ; 
You promise to direct his path, 

And point the way to heaven. 

" You promise to defend him aye, 

From sin and all things ill, 
And early teach his tender heart 

To do God's holy will. 

" You promise, when he grows in years, 

To tell him of this day ; 
And tell him how Christ, born for him, 

Can cleanse .all guilt away ; • 

" And that this sacred service is 

The sign of cleansing power ; 
And that you gave him up to God 

In this most holy hour. 

" Do you not promise this, my friends ? 

Make answer to the Lord." 
The preacher stopped, deep silence reigned ; 

The parents spake no word, 

But, bowing low, they gave the sign 

Of their heartfelt assent. 
The preacher came down to the font, 

And o'er the infant bent. 

The people press to see the babe ; 

The father's heart beats wild : 
The mother moves, with trembling hand, 

The folds which wrap the child. 

But ah ! what means that fearful shriek, 

Which breaks the holy air ? 
See how the wretched mother looks ! 

What means that fixed stare ? 



28 



The pastor stands with wet hand rais'd, 

To sprinkle that young head ; 
His hand falls down, his face grows pale, — 

The unbaptiz'd is dead ! 



THE POET. 



The poet walks entranced o'er earth, 
And, dreaming, touches Nature's strings, 
And calls grand harmonies to birth : 
Men listen, wond'ring as he sings. 
He goeth oft to wild retreats, 
Where Nature broods in solitude ; 
There, in the Muses' haunted seats, 
Enrapt he stands — as if he view'd 
Strange visions on the face of heav'n : 
His eye rolls o'er the boundless blue, 
And then — as if his sight had giv'n 
Wings to his soul — he soareth through 
Th' empyrean vault, and upward flies 
To scan deep mysteries — unseen 
By common souls — whose earth-bound eyes 
Are blinded with the dazzling sheen 
Of glorious light, tow'rds which he soars. 
Or, stretch'd upon the lap of earth, 
When Spring breathes o'er the myriad pores 
Which pierce the soil, and giveth birth 
To Nature's buried loveliness, 
To flow'rs, and leaves, and all things fair ; 
When the bright Sun looks down to bless 
His fruitful bride ; — when throbbing air, 
Warm with the sunshine, dances bright 



29 



O'er hill and dale, o'er land and wave ; 

When birds, long dumb through Winter's night, 

Eeturning, hail the dawn, which gave 

Life to the earth, to them new voice — 

Then too, the poet's soul renews 

Her slumb'ring might ; all things rejoice ; 

And flow'rs of thought bud as he views. 



SPEAKING EYES. 



She dawned upon the darkness of my soul 
Like some bright vision in a dream ; 

I looked at her, the magnet found its pole ; 

She looked again, and fair once more did beam 
On me that bright embodiment of Hope 

For which long, sad and seeking, I did grope. 

She smiled ; — ah me ! why did she sweetly smile ? 

Bright, laughing loves shot many a dart 
At me, from dimpling cheeks which, pale awhile, 
Blushed rosy as I gazed ; my heart 
Was wounded, yet it would not part 
From that which wounded ; ah ! 'twas all in vain 
To go ; each look a new link in the chain 
Which she unconsciously thus wound round me, — 
'Twas life, 'twas liberty, thus chained to be. 

Her soul looked from her angel eyes ; I read 
The purity within right clear 

From that bright halo which her glances shed 
Around her face ; I longed to hear 
Her voice, yet felt a strange-like fear 

To break that silence, and my dreamy eyes, 

Dreaming in hers, found love in silence lies. 



30 



What need of words ? I told my burning love 

In looks more eloquent than words ; 
And, joyed, I marked how well my gaze did move 

Her heart, and woke there sweet accords ; 

earth, no other hour affords 
When silence tells so sweet, so fond a tale. 

And many a time since then again I've gazed 

Into her speaking eyes, and told 
My love in looks. Though others are amazed, 

To see we little converse hold, 

And that our words are few and cold, 
What matters it ? our seeking eyes oft meet, 
And quick into each other's souls their message beat. 



amakeya:* 



Far in the Kafir's glorious land, 

Beside a burning heap 
Of ruins, sits an aged man, 

Who bitterly doth weep. 

* This ballad is founded upon the following incident, which happened at 
the close of one of the Kafir wars : — Macomo, with all his people, were 
removed to the neighbourhood of Algoa Bay. He used every means 
to remain on his old location. His appeal was pathetic enough, but we 
have profited somewhat by our experience in the word of a Kafir. " Here," 
said he, stretching his hand over the beautiful territory, " my father, a great 
Chief, dwelt ; these pastures were crowded with cattle ; here I have lived to 
grow old ; here my children have been born ; let me die in peace where I 
have so long lived." These entreaties, however, could not be listened to for 
one moment ; and, as a last trial, his daughter, Amakeya, the beauty of 
Kafirland, made her way to the tent of Colonel Campbell, 91st Eegiment, 
who, totally unprepared for her appearance, was yet more astonished at the 
sacrifice she offered, if her father's sentence of banishment might be rescinded. 

I have elsewhere mentioned Amakeya as the belle of the camp at Fort Hare, 



31 



Through his clasp'd hands the tears fall fast, 

And wet the earth, where stood 
His humble home, in ashes laid, 

Eed with his kindred's blood. 

And curses, struggling with his grief, 

Die on his quiv'ring lips ; 
And tight he grasps the assegai, 

Which still with life-blood drips. 

Then, starting to his feet, he cast 

An impious look on high : 
" God of the whites," he cries, " who dwell'st 

Beyond yon azure sky, 

" Thy children are a cruel race 

Of murderers and thieves. 
Give back to me my warriors brave, 

Fall'n thick as autumn leaves 

and no doubt she had been sufficiently reminded of her charms to make her 
sensible of the value of them. She made her strange offer in all the con- 
sciousness and pride of beauty ; and, with her finely-moulded arms folded 
before her, she spoke without hesitation, for she was guided by motives 
worthy a lofty cause — motives, how desecrated ! how degraded ! Poor 
Amakeya ! 

"If her father might remain on his own lands," she said, " she would 
be the sacrifice and guarantee for his future good faith towards the 
white man. She would leave her own people, and follow Colonel Campbell ; 
his home should be hers ; she would forsake all, and dwell with him. This 
was her last word, her final decision, and she would abide by it." 

It may be here observed, that the young girls in Kafiiiand are brought up 
with strict notions of female propriety ; to forfeit their reputation, is to entail 
on themselves severe punishment, and on their families perpetual disgrace. 

Amakeya' s motives were not unappreciated by her hearer, but the pro- 
posal was, of course, rejected, with every consideration for her position, and 
the circumstances by which she had been actuated ; and she departed with 
her father on his journey. We may fancy Amakeya taking a last look at the 
green places wherein her childhood had been passed, and finally sitting 
down among a strange people, in sight of the "great waters." A new and 
wondrous spectacle to that mountain-girl must have been that mighty and 
pathless sea. — Mrs. H. Ward; The Cape and the Kafirs. 



32 



" Before the hot blast of their guns, 
Which, with its hailstorm, rode 

O'er all our ranks, and made us fall 
Like corn when it is mow'd. 

" They say Thou art a God of peace — 

Thy rebel children lie ; 
They say Thou art a righteous judge : 

For vengeance dread I cry ! 

" Avenge the wrongs we've suffered 
From those who call on Thee ; 

If Thou art just, then root out those 
Who live by treachery !" 

The godless savage paused awhile — 

And, with a flashing eye, 
Look'd round o'er all that beauteous land, 

Far stretching 'neath the sky. 

Where'er he turn'd his eyes, he saw 

War's desolating brand ; 
The smoke of burning villages 

Arose on ev'ry hand. 

The tow'ring mountains far away, 
High heav'nward bore the blaze ; 

O'er all the fruitful valleys hung 
A thick and lurid haze. 

" There are the mountains, where I track'd 

The lions to their dens ; 
Oft have I coursed the flying deer 

Across those burning glens. 

" No more shall huntsman's shout be heard 

On Mancazana's hills ; 
No more shall huntsman slake his thirst 

In Mancazana's rills ; 



33 



" No more shall young men dance at eve, 

Around the peaceful kraal ; 
No more shall maidens wait, to hear 

Their brave young lovers call. 

' " No more shall children sport around 

The reed huts of their sires ; 
Men, wives, and children — all are burn'd 

Under the white man's fires !" 

The old man paused — a choking sob 
Burst from his heart of steel. 

Ah ! white men, do ye ever think, 
The black man too can feel 

Those large emotions of the heart, 
Which home and kindred wake, 

Which swell up in our panting breasts, 
As if our hearts would break ? 

While still he wept, a lovely maid 

Crept from a wood hard by ; 
Poor Amakeya's skin was black, 

But Love beam'd from her eye 

As brightly as it beameth forth 

In lordly homes of ease, 
In happier climes, where sound of war 

Ne'er scared off love-born Peace. 

She stole close to the sobbing chief, 

And look'd up in his face, 
With all a woman's tenderness — 

Eve's universal grace. 

" My father, my father ! list, 

Ah ! weep not so, I pray ; 
But come with me, I'll comfort thee, 

And all thy grief allay." 

D 



34 



She took him gently by the hand, 

And led him from that soil, 
Mark'd with the blood of those he loved, 

And all war's horrid toil. 

And, silently, he follow' d her 

Far up the mountain-brow ; 
Far from the white man's glitt'ring tents, 

Down in the vale below. 

At last they reach'd a tow'ring rock, 

Which cast its cooling shade 
Far down the rugged mountain's steep, 

And there her pace she stay'd. 

" Come father, sit, and rest thee now 
From the fierce heat of strife ; 

I'll bring thee corn and milk, to stay 
The fainting spring of life." 

She hurried to a neighb'ring cave, 
And brought thence milk and corn, 

And, kneeling at his feet, she fed 
The warrior war-worn. 

The father look'd down on his child, 

And smiled to see her care ; 
Long time he spoke not, silently 

He stroked her shining hair. 

" Sweet Amakeya ! I am rich 

Since thou art left to me — 
The white man's Queen not half so rich 

As I, when I have thee. 

"To-morrow, child, we'll leave this land, 
Where thou wert born and bred ; 

To-morrow must we seek a home 
Unknown to white man's tread. 



35 



" To-morrow's setting sun must find 

Us resting far from here ; 
We can no more, at even- tide 

Let fall the tribute tear 

Upon the mound, where rests the dust 

Of her who you me gave ; 
Ah ! when we're gone, the white man's pl< 

Will tear your mother's grave !" 

"My father, say not so," she cried ; 

" The white man may be moved ; 
To-morrow let us go to him — 

My pow'r's not yet been proved. 

"Perchance he'll listen to my tale, 
Perchance I'll move his heart, 

Perchance he may call back the word 
Which bade us hence depart." 

"My daughter, hope not thus ; 'tis vain ; 

The white man's stern command 
Cannot be changed ; we must go hence, 

And leave our fatherland ! 

" My arms are gone ! I must obey ; 

No safety more is here ; 
Too long we've fought ! the strife is vain 

Where victory's so dear !" 

" My father, talk no more of war ; 

I know the white man's pow'r ; 
Love moves all hearts, let love then be 

Our refuge in this hour. 

" In this dark hour of deep despair, 

Of sorrow and distress, 
Love yet may conquer, when the hands 

Of war hang weaponless. 
D 2 



36 



" To-morrow — when the sun is up, 

"When day has dawn'd again, 
When night has lull'd the passions wild 

Which war could not restrain — 

" We'll get us to the white chief's tent ; 

My tears will move his heart ; — 
say not nay ! one trial more, 

And then we can depart." 

The father gave his slow consent 

Unto her earnest pray'r ; 
When woman prays, a savage e'en 

Must yield to words so fair. 

When scarce the morrow's sun had ris'n, 

The chieftain and his child 
Went down unto the white men's tents ; 

He sad, she hopeful, smiled. 

They pass'd through crowds of gaping men, 

Who glared upon their foe 
With sullen brow or scornful eye, 

And pitied not his woe. 

They came before the white chief's tent ; 

He met them at the door, 
And gazed in wonder at the maid, 

Such graceful form she bore. 

" white man !" spake the Kafir chief, 
" We know that thou art brave, 

And brave men have not hearts of steel, 
But save when they can save. 

i ' We come to crave one boon from thee : 

Keverse thy stern command ; 
bid us not depart from here ; 

This is our Fatherland ! 



37 



" We love it, as the white man loves 

His home beyond the sea : 
Thou would' st not let a stranger take 

That dear-loved land from thee. 

"We'll live in peace, and do thy will ; 

We'll call thy Queen our Queen ; 
let us die where we were born, 

And let this waving green, 

" Which waves above our fathers' dust, 

Once wave above our head, 
When white men's herds shall crop the grass 

Where Kafir cattle fed." 

The white man's brow grew stern, he spake : 

"No mercy shall be giv'n 
To black men who can break their oaths, 

And fear no God in heav'n. 

"Ten years ago you ask'd for peace ; 

The white man gave you peace ; 
He gave back lands he took from you ; 

From bonds he gave release. 

"How have you kept your faith with him ? 

Where now the oaths you swore ? 
Dost think the white man now will deal 

As kindly as before ? 

"Nay ! you and yours have steel' d his heart, 

And driven pity thence ; 
Nay, savage foe ! your wiles I know ; 

Depart ! and get you hence. 

" Upon the borders of the sea, 

Your thieving band may roam, 
And find some other pleasant land — 

This is no more your home," 

D 3 



38 



The savage chieftain heaved a sigh, 

Then, turning to his child, 
He laid his hand upon her head, 

And said, in accents mild, 

4 'Poor Arnakeya ! dost thou hear ? 

In vain, in vain we crave ; 
We have no home ! come, let us go 

And seek some unknown grave !" 

But, proudly stepp'd the maiden forth, 
And conscious of her charms, 

She folded o'er her swelling breast 
Her beauteous ebon arms. 

And in sad accents, soft and clear, 
And sobbing while she spake, 

She pray'd so earnestly, then wept 
As if her heart would break : 

"0 white man ! pity those grey hairs 
Which grace my father's head ; 

He'll fight no more, let him die here ; 
Ah ! soon he must be dead ! 

" grant my prayer, and gratefully 

I'll yield myself to thee ; 
I'll go with thee where thou dost go — 

E'en o'er the fearful sea. 

" I'll be thy slave, and toil alway, 

And never long to come 
Unto this lovely land again — 

This land which is my home. 

" But willingly I'll give up all ! 

And leave my father's side, 
And leave my tribe, and leave my land, 

And all thy will abide. 



39 



" Let him but live to hunt the de,er 

On Mancazana's hills ; 
Let him but live to quench his thirst 

In Mancazana's rills." 

Amazed, the father heard such speech : 

" My daughter speak not so — 
What ! dost thou think thy father then 

Would ever let thee go, 

" And suffer slavery and shame, 

That he might dwell in peace ? 
Thou'rt mad, my child ; — come, come we'll go— 

This idle praying cease." 

He fell upon her neck, and wept, 

And press'd her to his heart : 
" My peerless Amakeya ! come — 

We'll never, never part." 

The white man's haughty look relax'd, 

A tear roll'd down his face, 
And, wond'ringly, he gazed upon 

That form of matchless grace. 

And then — with mien as if he spoke 

To dame of high degree — 
He bow'd before that savage girl, 

And answered soothingly : 

" Thou noble creature ! God has made 

Thee beautiful and fair ; 
And given thee a soul as pure 

As e'er breathed Christian pray'r. 

" But go — I dare not hear thee speak, 

I dare not hear thee pray ; 
It grieves my heart, my noble maid, 

But — I must answer nay : 



40 



" The stern command I gave, does come 

From higher pow'r than mine ; 
But, go in peace, thy words have smoothed 

Thy father's lot and thine." 

Then mournfully the maiden look'd 

Upon her aged sire, 
Still weeping on her breast, as if 

In tears he would expire. 

" Come, father ! far away we'll go ! 

I'll ever comfort thee ; 
We'll leave our home, and seek our graves 

Far by the great blue sea !" 

They left the white man's glitt'ring tents, 
And climb 'd the mountain brow ; 

The father filled with fierce despair, 
The maiden hopeless now. 

:Jc ijs ' 

Few weeks have pass'd — the Kafir girl 

Has left her native land, 
And travell'd far, o'er hill and dale, 

And now sits by the strand. 

She gazes on that mighty sea 

She ne'er had seen before ; 
Half-pleased, half-awed, she hears the waves 

Hoarse-moaning on the shore. 

She loves to see the stately waves 

Come rolling to the land, 
And dash their foam-crests on the rocks, 

And murmur o'er the sand. 

She speaks no word, she moves no limb, 

But sits as in a trance, 
And ever looks out to the sea 

With that same wond'ring glance. 



41 



Long years have pass'd — the Kafir girl 

Still loves to come at eve, 
And sit upon some beetling crag, 

And with the sad sea grieve. 

Poor Amakeya ! years shall pass, 
• And white men still shall come 
Across that sea, and still press on, 
And take thy new-found home ! 

But, while one black man shall be found 
Where thousands now do rove, 

Shall still the touching tale be told 
Of Amakeya's love. 



THE GALE OF MAY 1865.* 



A score of ships, and threescore gallant souls 
Gone in one awful sweep ! Such was the tale 
Eead on the blank, blanched faces of the crowd 
Which lined the beach on which the thundering waves 
Disgorged their spoil of yesterday. Sad sight 
God wot it was ; and grant that ne'er again 
We hear or see its like. 

* One of the most destructive gales that have ever visited Table Bay, 
occurred on Wednesday, the 17th May, 1865. Early in the forenoon an 
anchor-boat, which had put off from the shore to render assistance to vessels 
in distress, was capsized by the sea, and twelve men drowned. During the 
day eighteen vessels out of twenty-eight at anchor in the Bay, were driven 
ashore ; and most of them became total wrecks. One of the vessels, the 
City of Peterborough, broke adrift from the anchorage after sunset, and 
finally struck upon a reef some distance from the shore, nearly abreast of the 
Military Hospital. The cries of the crew for assistance could plainly be 
heard from the shore, but all attempts to communicate with them failed. 



42 



Anxious, yet brave, 
And hopeful rose those we have lost at morn, 
And watched the dark'ning sky. Northward the clouds 
Lay thick and black ; the heavens were packed 
With portents of disaster ; yon lone isle,* 
The dismal prison of the hapless, storms 
Had blotted from th' horizon. Hushed and awed,. 
And stricken sensible, the madmen looked 
And listened steadily, while madder winds 
And waters, warring round and over them, 
Swept landward 'gainst the doomed ships. 

A waste 

Of tumbling billows in the Bay — a shore 
Lined with the City's life, — dumb-struck in sight 
Of Death and Desolation, riding wild 
Upon the howling storm, 

Good Lord, now help 
The souls on board ! Brave though they be, and strong 
Their ships and tackle, what can stand 'gainst strokes 
Which shake the granite Castle walls, from which 
The swaying crowds recoil, as crested waves, 
Climbing the rocks, mount to the parapet, 
And, in mad sport, fling fragments of the wreck 
And ghastly spoil with which they freighted came 
Into the cannon's mouth. 

The Captain (Wright), his wife, and a crew of fifteen all perished. But the 
most shocking catastrophe was the loss of the mail steamer Athens. About 
six o'clock in the evening her last anchor parted, and she attempted to 
steam out to sea. At first she seemed to make considerable headway ; but 
before seven o'clock she drifted broadside on to the rocks near Green Point 
and speedily broke up. It is supposed that her machinery gave way, or 
that her fires were extinguished by the sea which broke over her. Capt. 
Smith, commander, Dr. Curtis, surgeon, and all hands perished. There 
were thirty persons on board of her. — South African Advertiser and Mail. 

* Kobben Island, at the entrance of Table Bay, where the Colonial Lunatic 
Asylum and Infirmary Institution is placed. 



43 



Strong chains are snapped 
Like reeds ; and ships, plucked from fast anchors, dash 
Against each other, and together drift, 
Helpless and maimed, to leeward. Half-mast high, 
Eeversed and tattered, heavy with the brine 
Splashed in the tops, flags flutter from each bark — 
Mute signals of distress. 

All eyes are on the crews", 
Foremost in need, who, many a time before, 
Manning their boats, and saving life, had robbed 
Our dreaded shore of half its horrors. Now, 
Ready as ever, to the boats they rush, 
And push from land to battle with the storm. 
From beating hearts a cry — but half a cheer, 
And half a groan — bids them God-speed. See, see, 
How bravely in the surging gulfs, or high 
On curling crests they wrestle, tossed about, 
Yet steady to their aim. In vain ! One boat • 
Is gone ! Forgetting self and promis'd gold, 
Competing crews turn to the rescue, but — 
Too late ! the hungry waves have seized their prey, 
And snatched the bravest of the brave. 

Meanwhile 

Ship after ship grinds groaning through the surf, 
And strikes the land, and lurching over, lies 
A miserable wreck ; — hull, masts, and spars 
Crushed and thrown on the beach — a pile to fire, 
And lure fresh fuel to the beacons lit 
Upon the dark'ning shore. 

The sun glares out 
One moment through the rifted clouds, and lights 
The scene of horror ; then night falls with gloom 
Befitting the sad havoc but begun : — a night 
Whose like greybeards remember not ; whose hours 
Went heavy with the groans and shrieks and wails 



44 



Of drowning men and women, shoreward borne 

Mid fiercest bowling of the hurricane, 

And briny splash of tears swept from the sea. 

Northward and Southward in the Bay, the last 
Worst scenes of the great tragedy in gloom 
Were lengthened out. Would God we might have seen 
Bather than heard what then was heard. Light, sight, 
Would have nerved arms to dare ; but hearing then 
And there, men could but listen, numbed, and groan 
In answering anguish to the shrieks and wails 
Which rent the darkness, — telling tales of woe 
Which chilled the stoutest heart. 

Southward a bark 
Dashed on the rocks, and the insulting surf, 
Mocking man's power, threw up the mangled forms 
Of those whp manned her at the very gates 
Of the last Befuge* for the sick and maimed._ 
Northward the Athens, her last anchor gone, 
Faced the wild seas and left the harbour. They 
Who watched from shore scarce dared to hope, but prayed 
That he who took her, trusting in the God 
Of whom, with meek and lowly trustfulness, 
He spake on his last resting-day on earth 
To children in their Sunday school, might keep 
And guide his good ship through the passage safe 
To open ocean. Ah ! true-hearted man, 
And daring mariner, had'st thou, less bold 
And scrupulous, but drifted to the shore 
Where others sought their chance, not now 
Would friends with tear-dimm'd eyes along the strand 
Be searching for thy body ! But, too brave, 
Into the night and tempest forth he went ; 
And, risking all, lost all. 



* The Military Hospital. 



45 



Who lives to tell 
How the doomed ship swerved on the ragged reef 
Before the hurtling storm ? 

Still those wild shrieks, 
Which pierced the night, now ringing in our ears, 
Startle and madden minds which fain would dim 
Their recollection of this last worst grief. 

To-day the City empties all its streets 
Upon the wreck-strewn beach. The sun is out, 
The Bay is calm ; — the tragedy — which seems 
A comedy to some — is done. They laugh 
And chatter loud while mangled bodies roll 
Up to their very feet. They brawl and fight 
For dead men's clothes. Gay children in the sand 
Are picking fragments from the ghastly heaps 
And making dolls and toys, and dressing them 
With bridal garments washed up by the sea. 

The dead are drifting silently about 
The battered ships still riding in the Bay, 
The remnant of a fleet destroyed. No wail 
Comes from the sunlit sea : but now alas ! 
Wails and laments go seaward from the shore 
Where wander widows, orphans, lifting hands, 
Helpless, and weak with grief, and tearful eyes 
To smiling storm- cleared skies. God send them help 
And give us willing hearts and hands to speed 
Their exodus from this death-laden woe. 



Cape Town, May 18, 1865. 



46 



JOY AND SORROW. 



Joy measures short his hard-earn'd hours, 
And chases time o'er beds of flowers : 
His step is light, he halts nor stays ; 
Our happiest are our shortest days. 

Pale sorrow treads a way of thorns, 
Slow, painful moving as he mourns ; 
With heavy step he takes the road, 
Or on a sick-bed casts his load. 

Joy knows no past, no future fears, 
Feeds on the seed for coming years ; 
And, wanton, scatters to the blast 
All the rich harvest of the past. 

Grief loathes the present, looks before, 
Or backward to the days of yore ; 
Makes moments days, frets while they last ; 
Longs for the night, then longs it past. 

Youth, linked to pleasure and to health, 
A spendthrift, bless'd with store of wealth, 
Euns through the hours, and fancies Care 
A phantom for the old to stare 
At when the sunshine's gone ; a shade 
That hovers where a grave is made. 

Ah, youth ! vain youth, Spring has its frosts, 
As frighten' d childhood has its ghosts : 
Health, strength, and ev'ry empty joy 
Are brittle as poor childhood's toy. 
'Tis well that sickness comes sometimes, 
That funeral notes jar through the chimes 
We silly mortals ring for ever, 
While floating down the rapid river. 

The sea is near, Death on the shore, 
The current's strong — God help us o'er. 



47 



EEQUIE SCANT. 



Close beside the living city, 
Lies the City of the Dead ; 
Weekly, daily, trains of mourners, 

By a black-plumed chariot led, 
Leave the one, and bear away 
Former friends, now nought but clay. 
Forth, with down-cast heads, they go, 
Following that load of woe ; 
Loath, ah ! very loath, to leave 
That poor dust which makes them grieve ; 
Dust of father, dust of mother, 
Dust of sister, dust of brother, 
To the gloom 
Of the tomb, 
At whose solemn verge 
Hopefully they chant the dirge : 
" Let it rest; in brighter skies 
Lives the soul which never dies !" 

Student-brothers, we have waited, 

More than once this passing year, 
At the entrance of that city 

For some well-known teacher's bier, 
There we've laid an exiled friend; 
Though no mother could him tend, 
Mother earth has clasped her child, 
Far from home and friends exiled ; 
And a snow-wreath gathered cold 
Kound the eastern stranger's mould ; 
But the sere leaves round him lying, 
Wintry fields, all Nature dying, 



48 



Whispered all : 
Down we fall 
To our mother earth ; 
But again she'll give us birth : 
" Rest awhile, with brighter skies 
Spring shall come, and dead things rise." 

Once, while ling'ring near that entrance, 

Suddenly I heard a hum, 
As of many footsteps marching 
To the slow beats of a drum ; 
Soon I spied a martial train, 
Following a comrade slain 
By gaunt Death, who feasts on war ; 
But Peace cannot stop his car ; 
When do cease all sounds of strife, 
Silently Death steals on Life ; 
Whisp'ring, shouting — men are mortal ; 
Yet I open but the portal, 
With the key, 
Giv'n to me, 
To another land, 
Where alone I'll never stand : 
" Rest then, mortals ; to yon skies 
Death, Destroyer, ne'er can rise." 

Nearer came the train : and, foremost, 
Gay- clad drummers beat the drums ; 

Shining toys ! in dark folds muffled ; 
Death their warlike noise benumbs. 

Following the war-drums hearsed, 

With their battle- arms reversed, 

Men of war did peaceful go, 

As if conquered by their woe ; 

Stately, slow, and still they went, 

And with faces earthwards bent ; 

Not as if to battle going, 

But as if to grim Death bowing, 



49 



Who lays low, 
Friend with foe ; 
And, o'er battle plains 
Shouts aloud, in ringing strains : 
" Eest together, in yon skies 
Ne'er are heard your battle-cries.'' 

Borne aloft on comrades' shoulders, 

Followed the bier and pall, 
"Wrapping bearers in huge foldings, 
Which unto the ground did fall. 
Vanity of vanities ! 
When the bright-robed soldier dies, 
Sword and sword-belt, cap and plume, 
Go with him unto his tomb ! 
So 'twas now, for o'er the head 
Of the cold and coffined dead, 
Glittered these, and seemed to utter — 
Answering the drums' low mutter : 
Soldiers brave, 
From the grave 
Must not rise unknown, 
When the trumpet -blast is blown : 
" Eest brave soldier : enemies 
Fight no more in yonder skies." 

Scarce had gone the bright-robed warriors, 
When another train drew near ; 

Dark-clad students, sons of Learning, 
Following a teacher's bier. 

Not with outward pomp and show 

Buried are the men who go 

Seeking through their lives for Truth ; 

Searching Nature, leading Youth 

Onward still, to hoard the store — 

Dearer far than gold — the lore 

Which the mind, for ever thirsting, 

Drinks from earth, and, upward bursting, 

E 



50 



Soars on high, 
Through the sky, 
Through yon azure dome, 
Yearning for its proper home. 
" Searchers rest ; in yonder skies 
Perfect truth shall o'er you rise." 

Not with banners o'er us waving, 

Not with torchlights' fiery blaze, 
Did we greet our Alma Mater 

On the brightest of her days ; 
On the day when youth and age, 
Teacher, scholar, student, sage, 
Joined together, shout with pride : 
Hail Minerva ! Wisdom's bride ! 
— In one year Death's rueful hand 
Snatched so many from that band, 
'Neath whose fost'ring care we flourish, 
From whose lore our minds we nourish ; 
One more dead ! 
Ere it sped, 
And the fatal year 
Closed upon a teacher's bier ! 
" Eest brave spirits ; in the skies. 
Perfect truth shall o'er you rise." 

Student-brothers, years go swiftly, 
Bearing us to Death's dark night : 

Students we, yet have we studied 

Life's short span, and Time's swift flight ? 

Who so sure as we of Life ? 

Who so well armed for its strife ? 

Yet, 'mongst us, Death bares his sword ; 

Science trembles at the word, 

And knows not its future lot, 

Guessing, hoping — man is not 

Born to perish ; Faith, sure, certain, 

Tears aside the grave's dark curtain — 



51 



Through the night, 
Hails the light 
Of that sun whose rays 
We invoke in student-days. 
Dying, be our latest sighs : 
" Sun of Eighteousness, arise I" 

Students' Almanack, Utrecht, 1859. 



THE BUSTY KEY. 



The village church-yard gate 
Is never red with rust ; 

Its hinges turn right well, 
And never gather dust. 

Beside the village -church 

An ancient house there stands, 

But, if you touch its gate, 

Rust, dirt, cling to your hands. 

The church -yard walks are clean ; 

The grass, o'er many a mound, 
Ne'er waxes tall ; — too oft 

'Tis trampled to the ground. 

And many a curving path 

Sweeps round that ancient hall ; 

But grass grows on the walks, 
And waxes very tall. 

The village children play 
Among their fathers' graves, 

Their merry laughter rings 

Where the dark cypress waves ! 

E 2 



52 



No gentle children play 
Beside that old hall-door ! 

It stands wide open still ; 
None enter as of yore. 

Each holy sabbath-day, 

The village church-yard swarms 
With groups from ev'ry door, 

And all the neighb'ring farms. 

Each holy sabbath-day, 
The hall -do or stands ajar, 

But none come to the gate, 
And draw the rusty bar. 

The village-church is fill'd, 
Each holy sabbath- day, 

With crowds of cottagers, 

Who come to praise and pray. 

One pew is never fill'd — 

One nobler pew alone ; 
The Bibles still lie there, 

Bight dusty they have grown ! 

Beneath the church-floor is 
A large and sculptured tomb, 

With gilded coffins fill'd, 
Which glisten in the gloom ! 

Above the tomb-door hangs 

A great old rusty key ; 
I saw, and took it down 

In dreaming reverie. 

I pass'd the church-yard gate, 
Still dreaming as before, 

Unlock'd the rusty gate — 

And — lock'd the old hall-door. 



53 



ON THE DEATH OF TOLLENS. 



The poet's voice is hush'cl, 
The great old heart is crush'd, 
The mighty spirit fled, 
The lov'd old singer's dead. 
Mourn o'er the mournful bier, 
Let fall the tribute tear 

Where sad trees wave 
O'er Tollens' grave. 

Ah ! he made others sing, 
And shall then no mourner bring 
An offering to the praise 
Of him whose glorious lays 
Have stirr'd the hearts of all 
As doth a battle-call, 

When foes around 
Shrink at the sound ? 

He built himself a name 
More during than the fame 
Of heroes whom he sung ; 
The laurel wreath once flung 
Around his brow 
May faded be ere now ; 

But his lordly rhyme 
Lives through all time. 

The mem'ry of great deeds 
Some fitting record needs ; 
But not the poet's art, 
Which speaks unto the heart, — 



54 



Dwells in the heart and lives, 
While breathes a heart, which gives 

Kesponsive chords 

To poet's words. 

The poet needs no sepulchr'd tomb 
To deck with stately gloom 
The spot where he is laid ; 
No rich chas'd urn display 'd 
Can fitly in its crust 
Contain the precious dust 

Of him whose lays 

Live on always. 



MAY I MEET ONCE MOEE MY FKIENDS. 



When o'er the lone and stormy deep, 
Before the gale the bark doth sweep ; 
When tempests rage and billows roll, 
And terror strikes the stoutest soul — 
Which sees, in ev'ry surging wave, 
A fearful, unlamented grave — 
This pray'r the sailor heav'nward sends : 
" may I meet once more my friends IT 

When the fierce battle-cry resounds, 
And Death, exultant, upward bounds 
O'er all the ensanguined plain ; when cries 
And shrieks of dying ones arise, 
And pierce the smoky, stifling air — 
The soldier breathes the fervent pray'r, 
Which with the din of battle blends : 
;i may I meet once more my friends !' 



55 



When wand'ring in a foreign land, 
Though wealth and plenty load his hand, 
Though pleasures soothe and ease awhile, 
Though Paradise doth round him smile, 
The exile, where he e'er may roam, 
Still sighs, oft as he thinks of home, 
And with his sighs this pray'r he blends : 
" may I meet once more my friends !" 

When Death has snatch'd some friend away — 
When in the grave he lays the clay 
Of those he held most dear below, 
The Christian sheds his tears of woe 
Upon the sod ; then looks on high — 
Hope sees bright realms beyond the sky ! 
And to those realms the pray'r ascends : 
" may I meet once more my friends !" 



TO 



I saw her cloth'd in beauty, 

Surpassing poet's dream, 
Fair as the star of evening, 

In loveliness supreme. 

Upon her, as a vision, 

I gaz'd in wrapt surprise, 
For th' innocence of angels 

Beam'd from her heav'n-blue eyes. 

Her hair in waving tresses 
Of mixing shade and light, 

Fell resting on her shoulders 
Like moon -lit clouds at night. 




56 



Bright as the dewy morning, 
A smile was on her face, 

Spreading her cheeks w T ith dimples 
Of more than mortal grace. 

Ah, why was she so lovely, 
She stole my heart away, 

And hopelessly I've lov'd her 
For many a weary day. 

Ah, why is she so lovely, 
And why is she so fair ? 

I love her to distraction, 
But never will despair. 

I dare not tell my passion, 

But inwardly I vow 
That ever I will love her 

As I do love her now. 

What though she looks so coldly 

Upon my silent love, 
That love, if true and constant, 

At last her heart may move. 



TO A SIS TEE. A FRAGMENT. 



Fanny, Fanny, dost remember 
Days long gone, when we were young ? 
Dost remember how we sported, 
How we laughed, and how we sung ? 
Then we never dreamt of parting, 
But each joyous, careless day 



57 



Fled ; and no thought of to-morrow 
Cross'd the sunshine of our way. 
Dost remember that old garden, 
'Twas so beautiful and fair, 
With its wealth of Tropic splendour, 
With its balmy, perfum'd air. 
Dost remember the dark alleys 
Arch'd with many rarest vines, 
With their clusters hanging thickly 
In long many-coloured lines ? 
Dost remember that green arbour, 
With its cool, refreshing shade, 
With the passion-flowers shining 
In the shadows which they made ? 
Dost remember the great willows 
Weeping o'er their weight of years, 
Dipping in the pond beneath them 
And then drying up their tears, 
As they trailed their snake-like branches 
O'er the dried and withered grass, 
With their heavy, woeful weeping, 
Bringing life where they did pass ? 
Dost remember how we gather'd 
Orange-blossoms 'neath the trees 
As they fell, like scented snow-flakes, 
In the balmy summer breeze ? 
Dost remember all those flow'r-beds, 
With their wild, wild finery, 
Nought but colour, colour, colour, 
Laughing 'neath the bright blue sky ? 



58 



FABEWELL. 



Is it so ; and must we sever ; 

Must I never see thee more ; 
Farewell then, farewell for ever, 

Dearer now than e'er before. 
Ah ! they lie who say love- fadeth, 

When the lov'd one scorns our love ; 
Coldness oft like water aideth 

Flames which we cannot reprove. 
Ah ! I lov'd thee far too dearly, 

Vainly now I strive to hate ; 
Love began with me too early, 

Other passions came too late. 
Love absorb'd my very being, 

And I liv'd alone to love, 
Happy when the loved one seeing 

Bound whose form my hopes did move. 
And now, Mary, thou hast broken 

That poor heart which beat for thee ; 
That one word which thou hast spoken, 

Took my life, my hopes, from me. 
Fearful Future, come, I care not 

What thou hid'st in thy gloom; 
Hopeless Love — since Hope I dare not — 

Be my sad friend to the tomb. 
She on whom my all was centred, 

Smil'd and yet deceived at last ; 
Ah ! the wound has deeper ent'red, 

For she raised hopes but to blast. 
Had she never smiled so kindly, 

Coldness might have checked the flame 
I had then not loved so blindly, 

Or, if loving, could not blame. 



59 



IMPKOMPTU IN AN ALBUM. 



An Album ! What is it ? A parcel of patches 

Of doggerel and rhyme, of drawings and scratches 

By ninnies and blockheads, of fools the quintessence ; — 

By ladies kept for the extra-fervescence 

Of mortals, who always with Genius are boiling, 

And must let it out or their health will be spoiling. 

But ask them to write, and they'll tell you this story — 

To love you alone is their uttermost glory ; 

They'll talk horrid trash about flowers and roses, 

And sentiments old as the writings of Moses ; 

They'll call you a moonbeam and all sorts of nonsense, 

For these moon-oalves of rhyme have no sort of conscience. 

Then ladies ! be warned and don't keep such an evil 

As an Album for, — oh ! I won't be uncivil : 

I wish evil to rhyme with rather a bad word, 

But your pardon I crave — I've not used the sad word. 



VOLUNTEEBS' MABCH. 



Hark to that battle-cry ! nearer and louder 

Sounds the shrill trumpet that calls from afar ! 
Volunteers ! bravely now haste to your standards, 

Muster, and rally, and arm you for war ! 
Soldiers are going, their pennons high lifting, 

Spread your red cross to the winds of the sky ; 
Barbarous hordes on your borders do threaten, 

Up for your country, and conquer or die ! 



60 



Let the ground shake 'neath the tramp of your horses ; 

Swoop with your gams on the dastardly foe ; 
Swift as the wild deer, hut fierce as the lion, 

Roaming those plains where your trumpets must blow. 
Shades of your fathers are hov'ring around you, 

Shades of those fathers in battle who fell ; 
Fight for their honour, and die with their valour, 

Never let conquest your proud spirits quell ! 

Come from your vineyards, stout burghers and Westerns ; 

Come from your corn lands, trained sons of the North ; 
Come from your grassy plains, brave-hearted Easterns : 

In war, as in peace, united go forth ! 
Come at your country's call, come to the battle, 

Leave your still homes and away to the strife ; 
Sling on your muskets, and draw your bright steel blades, 

D — p for our country will venture his life. 

Linger not, linger not, rush to the battle ! 

Fair maidens, weeping, still bid you to go ; 
Sorrowing, but hoping, they'll wait your returning 

With smiles on their lips, on their cheeks a rich glow. 



GOOD HOPE. 



" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 
If we would but dare and do ; 
■ If we would but stand with ready hand 
To grasp ere the blessings go. 

" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 
If we would but stay life- streams, 

Which will past us flow while we, too slow, 
Stand rapt on the bank in dreams. 



61 



" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 
If we would but cease to hope 

That the rain will drop and bring a crop 
While we idly sit and mope. 

" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 
If we work, e'en while we wait 

For the sun and rain to ripen grain 
We have sown, then left to fate. ' 

" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 
If we use each heav'n-sent gift 

As means to an end, and do not spend 
Our best without care and thrift. 

" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 

If we live and struggle still 
To a better life, through toil and strife, 

With a stout heart and strong will. 

" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 

If our faith be active trust, 
And not blind belief, which, at each grief, 

Still mourns that what must be, must. 

" Good Hope" for this good land yet, 
If we would but trust in God, 

And the Christ, who came and took our name 
To bless, not to turn the sod. 



62 



LINES IN AN ALBUM. 



Here, in this book of smiles and tears — 
Interpreter of hopes and fears ; 
Here, midst those names to me unknown, 
Yet honoured since thy love they own ; 
Here, in this gorgeous tome, rich-gilt ; 
Here, in this shrine by friendship built, 
Where each some tender verse has penned 
In honour of their common friend ; 
Here, where so many hands have set 
Their seal of love — where " Ne'er forget" 
So oft breathes through the parting strain, 
Bringing a comfort with the pain ; 
Here, where the sister arts have striven 
To deck thy Album, and have given 
Thee offerings of their love and skill ; 
Here, at your own request and will, 
I dare to write these meagre lines : 
Friendship, I know, seeks no great signs 
Of genius, and will pardon faults, 
And read, e'en though the measure halts. 

Prom what far homes and distant lands 
Have come some friends, whose loving hands 
Have turned these leaves ? Perchance some roam 
Far from their dear-loved childhood's home, 
And sigh to think of former days 
When they too wrote their parting lays, 
And offered them to thee. Behold, 
Here on these leaves, where tears have rolled, 
Perchance as the last words were penned, — 
As the last touch which love could lend 



63 



Was to the painting given, — thou hast 
The record of their love. The past 
Can ne'er come hack — is dead, but Love 
Can never die. When softly move 
The worn-out wheels of life — when death 
Breathes out o'er us his cold, moist breath, 
We still recall the days of yore, 
And think of those we lov'd before. 

Perchance some hands these leaves which turned, 
Are long since cold, and long since urned — 
Are resting from the titter strife 
And turmoil of this busy life. 
'Tis naught, Love looks beyond the tomb, 
And though, mayhap, now wrapped in gloom, 
Hopes for a brighter day, when time, 
Nor grave, shall in a sunnier clime 
Part friends from friends ; where tears, if shed. 
Are only shed for joy ; where " dead 
And gone" are words unknown, 
Since Death for ever thence has flown. 

Whene'er in after years thy look, 
While turning o'er this precious book, 
Bests on this page, think, I pray, 
Of him who could not in his lay 
Express half what his heart has felt, 
Who has no power to move or melt 
The soul, but seeks alone to please — 
And kindly read what might the critics teaze. 



64 



AN ENIGMA, 

WHICH A FOP OR FLIRT WILL SOLVE AT ONCE ; BUT WHICH THE MOST WORTHY OF 
THE PRIZE WILL BE SLOW TO DISCOVER OR ACKNOWLEDGE. 



I am here, I am there, I am everywhere ; 

I am found on the earth, and I float in the air. 

■ 

I have moved ev'ry heart as nought else e'er moved ; 
I am loved as no other thing was e'er loved. 

An atom or universe may be my bound, 

For I'm small, and I'm great ; I am level or round. 

On each form and each substance some charm I bestow ; 
And, without me, the world would be worthless, I trow. 

When night sinks o'er earth I am seen in the sky, 
For I wait on the moon, with the comet I fly ; 
And each glittering star, in its far-shooting rays, 
Bears me, in bright blaze, to man's wondering gaze. 

With the clouds that ride high through the vast airy dome, 
Still changing, still pleasing, I ever do roam. 

When at dawn the sun rises, to light up the world, 
From the flash of his beams o'er the globe I am hurl'd ; 
And in showers of gold I fall down o'er the earth, 
And compass her round with a magical girth. 

On mountain, in valley, in streamlet and sea, 
Do but search, and, be sure, you will never miss me ; 
For all Nature doth spread out my charms to your view ; 
There's no colour but suits my aye varying hue. 



65 



And, but listen, you'll hear me, when morning awakes, 
In the dark forest-groves, or in dew-spangled brakes, 
Where each gay-feather'd singing-bird trills out my name ; 
Yea, I blow my own praise through the trumpet of fame. 

Now I leap into life at the touch of the hand ; 

Now I tremble on chords which the zephyrs have fann'd. 

I am old, I am young, and I die every day ; 
And yet I live on still for ever and aye. 

Now do guess what I am, for I'm near to you, too, 

Do but look in that glass, and say — what do you view ? 



A CHEISTMAS CAROL. 



Hark to those glorious strains 
That burst o'er Bethlehem's plains ; 
Behold the angelic band, 
Unnumbered as the sand 

On Jordan's banks : 

Heaven's various ranks 

Of Cherubim 

And Seraphim . 
Are there to hail their new-born King, 
List to the natal-song they sing ! 

" Glory to God on high ! 
To all beneath the sky 
Peace and good-will we bring, 
"Wide let our message ring : 

Glory to God ! 

Peace, spread abroad 

At Jesus' birth, 

Shall bless the earth ! 



F 



66 



Glory to God, our glorious King ! 
Hear, earth arise, with gladness sing. 

" Glory to God on high ! 
Behold, His Son doth lie 
Low in an humble stall ! 
He, who is Lord of all, 

Has left His home : 

To you has come, 

With you will dwell : 

To you will tell 
The wond'rous story of God's love, 
And by His life and death it prove. 

' 1 Glory to God on high ! 
Kedemption draweth nigh, 
Salvation has been found, 
Grace, mercy now abound. 

Shepherds, arise, 

Go where He lies, 

Adore your King, 

Whose birth we sing ; 
Go to that lowly hallowed stall : 
Go, see the infant Lord of all ! 

' ' Glory to God on high ! 
All ye who mourn and sigh, 
And ever cry and wail 
That earth is but a vale 

Of sobs and tears, 

Now still your fears ; 

Go, see the Friend 

Who balm can send, 
To heal the stricken wounded soul 
And make each sick and sad one whole. 



67 



" Glory to God on high ! 
His Son will live and die 
With men, to lead the way 
To life eternal ; yea, 

His life will give 

That ye may live 

In heaven above ; — 

Proofs of such love 
As doubting man cannot conceive. 
Shepherds, arise, go and believe !" 



PEACE ON EAETH. 

(A DREAM OF A CHRISTMAS YET TO COME.) 



Haek ! the Christmas bells are ringing, 

Einging out a joyous strain ; 
Hark ! the answ'ring guns are booming ; 

List ! another sound again 
Catches up the dying echoes 

Of the loud-tongued mouths of war ; 
Twice five hundred million voices 

Shout the glad news near and far ; 
With one voice the mighty cities 

Offer up their praise to God. 
Lines of fire flash the glad news 

Quick as lightning wide abroad, 
And the long- expectant nations 

Dream of Peace in ev'ry land. 

In the far-off camps each soldier 

Grasps his worn-out foeman's hand : 

They who fought, together kneeling, 
Offer up one hymn of praise ; 

And the loud roar of their cannon 
Speaks no more of deadly frays. 

F 2 



68 



Not a shot or shell goes whizzing 

Through the air to scatter death ; 
Incense-like the smoke goes curling 

Up to heaven in a wreath — 
To the God of Peace and Battle, 

To the God of Friend and Foe, 
North and South, in East and West, men 

Praise one Father whom all know. 

Far away, by holy Ganges, 

Where the tiger makes his lair ; 
Far away 'midst snows eternal, 

Where the Northman tracks the bear ; 
On the burning Afric deserts, 

Where the Arab roams the plain, 
Where the Zouave is vainly waiting 

For the comrades long since slain ; 
Far to Westward, o'er the ocean, 

In the New World's forests wild, 
Where the lonely wife is speaking 

To her dear lov'd infant child 
Of a father he ne'er saw yet, 

But who soon shall come from far, — 
This shall be a day remembered ; 

This, the death-day of all war. 

Universal Earth rejoices ; 

Never yet did coming Spring 
O'er so desolate a Winter 

Such new life and vigour bring. 
Nineteen hundred years had flitted 

Like a long-dreamt dream away, 
Since those shepherds, rev'rent listening, 

Heard the peaceful Christmas lay, 
That the Sun of Life had risen 

And the Gospel flag unfurled. 
" Peace on Earth, good-will to all men ; 

Peace I bring to all the world," 



69 



Were the words stamp'd on that banner, 

That fair banner of his love. 
Ah ! how seldom hath it fluttered 

Over men where'er they move ; 
Ah, how oft hath it been draggled 

Through the stormy waves of life, 
Whilst the war-cries of fierce brothers 

Sounded o'er their hellish strife ! 

Once again, this Christmas morning, 

O'er the Earth those sounds are borne — 
" Peace be with you, fighting brothers, 

Peace be with you on this morn." 
Like a white-plum'd dove descending, 

Peace upon the earth doth rest ; 
Hail ! bright spirit ; hail ! good omen, 

Be all people by you blessed : 
May Peace last and bring its increase, 

May War's now extinguish'd torch, 
Flung down on this day most blessed, 

Eest there 'fore God's temple porch. 
Perish they who dare to light it 

In aught but a holy cause ; 
Touch it not, poor short-lived mortals, 

'Twill but light you to Death's jaws ; • 
Kather raise the hymns of triumph, 

Wave the palms of victory : 
Pluck the flowers, wreath the garlands, 

Sound the Peace o'er ev'ry sea ; 
And, when hearts are full of gladness, 

think of the silent grave ; 
Let a tear fall for the fallen, 

For the many fallen brave ; 
They who lie on fields of battle 

Fought for peace they ne'er could know, 
Be for them your heartfelt longing, 

" Peace be to their ashes now," 



70 



NEW AND OLD. 



Solemnly, silently, 

On the dim sight, 
While watching the dying year, 

Saying good night, 

Life comes with light ; 
And farewells in welcomes 
Are lmsh'd ; — on the knell comes 

The chime of glad bells, 

Which the New Year foretells. 

Silly the world is, and 

Crazy with joy, 
While hailing the coming year 

As the young boy 

Hails a new toy ; 
He sports with it, breaks it, 
Old Time comes and takes it : 

The young has grown old, 

That is dross which seem'd gold. 

Young is the world yet, with 

Eich store of gold, 
Then why spread a pall o'er it 

Ere it is old ? 

— Are we not told 
That youth is for pleasure ? 
Then give us full measure ; 

The cup from the lip 

Must untastcd not slip. 



71 



Heartless the world is, and 

Dead to the grief 
Of poor ones who pass through it 

Begging relief. 

Life's not so brief : 
For helping the sighing 
There's time when we're dying ; 

The year is still young, 

And the chime is still rung. 

Weary the world is, and 

Fain would it sleep, 
For old has it grown now while 

Drinking too deep. 

Dim shadows creep 
O'er sad hearts, now yearning 
For New Year's returning, 

Ah ! never again 

From Eternity's main. 



THE WAY, THE TEUTH, AND THE LIFE; 

NEW YEAR'S DAY HYMN FOR THE YOUNG. 



Young fellow-travellers, would you stray 
Through all the years without a guide, 
Halting and asking on each side, 

" Where is the way ?" 

No ; onward and upward start to-day ; 
While young you still are near your home ; 
Your guide now calls you — ' ' Children come ; 

" I am the Way." 



72 



Would you be true ? flee then in youth 
Falsehood, which, shrouding heav'n's fair light, 
Cries still, while hurrying on to night, 

" Where is the Truth ?" 

Where is the Truth ? — 'tis near to youth ; 
Embrace it, and, full-arm'd for strife, 
Walk in Christ's light ; — He leads to Life ; 

"He is the Truth." 

Wait not for age ; now 'gin the strife ; 
With age come doubts, begetting fears, 
And you may cry, with hopeless tears, 

"0, what is Life?" 

Love not what dies, — that is not life ; 
Death and the Grave bound not the love 
Of Him who now calls from above, 

"I am the Life." 

Great Captain, lead us through the strife ; 
Teach us to follow now in youth, 
And be to all in deed and truth, 

"Way, Truth, and Life." 



" NOT FAR AWAY." 

(WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.) 

Weep not for those who die when young ; 

Who leave the earth when scarce their feet 
Have touched its soil, ere dust has clung 

To their pure souls, for hcav'n most meet, 
A hcav'n " not far away." 



73 



Weep not for those who ne'er can feel 
The rude shocks of the world, who play 

A few months in our sight, then steal, 
As night comes from us, to God's day 

In heav'n, ' ' not far away." 

Weep not- for those who wander'd not, 
Nor stumbled o'er rough places ; fled 

From earth and us with no foul spot 
Of sin on them : they are, though dead, 

In heav'n, "not far away." 

Why weep for them ? Since straight they went 
Along a path of flowers, and home 

Their elders call'd, woe-worn and bent : 

" The nearest way we've found ! Come ! come 
Heav'n is ' not far away.' " 

Weep not for them. Since God loves most 
The purest and the best, why grieve 

That He has saved those we had lost 

If they had lived and learn'd to kuui lesLve. 

Their heav'n far, far, away, 

Weep not for them, but, when they die, 
Thank God who brings you nearer them ; 

The " still small voice" speaks in the sigh 
With which they, dying, breathe this hymn : 
" God is not far away." 



74 



HOME. 



Saviour ! whose birth on Bethlehem's plains 
Announced was in angelic strains, 
To Thee, this day, we wanderers corne, 
And pray, Good Shepherd, lead us home ! 

Home to our Father's house on high, 
Home to those mansions in the sky, 
Whence Thou dost call to Age and Youth : 
"lam the Way, the Life, the Truth." 

As shadows lengthen o'er the land, 
Lead Thou the aged to the strand, 
And point their gaze to golden skies 
Which 0}3en where the sunlight dies. 

Lead Thou the strong unto the Eock 
'Neath whose broad shade the fainting flock, 
Worn with the heat, may rest secure 
In Thee, their strength and portion sure. 

Lead Thou the young to pastures green, 
To pleasant places, where the sheen 
Of morning's dew, from vernal skies, 
Still as on Eden's verdure lies. 

Take Thou the lambs into Thine arms, 
Ere yet the gay deceptive charms 
And baubles of this earth allure, 
And sicken souls they cannot cure. 

Good Shepherd ! come, take young and old, 
And gather all into Thy fold ; 
The night may fall while yet we roam, 
Good Shepherd ! come, and lead us home ! 



T BAN SLAT ED POEMS. 



In 1858, Mr. Thomson presented to English readers a few specimens from 
the Dutch Poets, whose writings he considered worthy of a wider reputation 
than they enjoyed while confined to the language of their own country. 
These were for the greater part the productions of living writers, and some 
of them are here reproduced. It was his intention to follow up this work 
with specimens of the older Dutch Poets. The translation from the 
"Lucifer" of Van Vondel (the contemporary of Milton) was prepared with 
that object, and is now published for the first time. 



FEOM THE "LUCIFER" OF VAN VONDEL. 



FIRST ACT. 
BEELZEBUB, BELIAL, APOLLYON. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Belial, on ether borne, flow hence to note 
Where Apollyon stays. Him Lucifer 
Sent as fit messenger towards earth, to spy 
And nearer mark man's happy home, the state 
Wherewith the Almighty dowers him ; time it is 
He should return ; nor far can be, for quick 
The watchful servant at his Lord's least nod 
Flies ever, and with neck and shoulder props, 
Faithful, his Master's throne. 

BELIAL. 

Beelzebub, 

Great councillor of heaven's vice-gerent, lo ! 

He rushes upwards through the spheres, the winds 

Fly not so fast, a trail of light recedes 

Where with strong wing he breaks the clouds ; he nears 

And scents the breath of heaven, where brighter day's 

More glorious radiance greets his flight. The stars, 

Far in the depths of space, turn their pale light 

To view his upward course, and deem the sight — 

So glorious 'tis — no angel, but a rushing fire, 

God-like, omnipotent. No meteor shoots 

So swift through space. Nearer towards us he comes, 

And bears a golden branch ; — now safely ends 

His flight. 

BEELZEBUB. 

What, Apollyon, dost thou bring ? 



APOLLYON. 

With my best zeal, Beelzebub, I've done 
The task imposed ; spied earth, and offer thee 
Fruits plucked in that far nether world, whose sun 
And clime are strange to us ; judge, by the fruit, 
That land, that garden, planted, blessed by God 
As man's fair heritage and joy. 

BEELZEBUB. 

I see 

The golden leaves, rich decked with silver dew ; 
Bright, airy pearls ! What pleasant odours ! fresh 
As if now plucked, and, gleaming bright, behold 
These blazing colours ; see, carbuncle, gold 
Glow on the joyous spoil ! To touch it e'en 
Seems desecration ; yet, the very sight 
Wakes appetite to taste. Who would not long 
For earth's fair dainties ; heavenly food I ween 
Would pall the appetite of him who might 
Earth's harvest gather. Paradise must fade 
In Eden's bloom ; and angels' joys give place 
To favoured man. 

APOLLYON. 

Too true ! alas, Beelzebub, 
Though heaven seem high, we lie too low ; these eyes 
Have seen sights worth all Paradise ; the joys 
Of man in Eden far surpass our state. 

BEELZEBUB. 

We long to hear ; recount these sights. 

APOLLYON. 

How hence 

I flew, I need not tell ; nine circles through, 
Where spheres spin round one centre, swifter far 
Than thoughts can change, I sank beneath the moon 



79 



And clouds. There, poised on wings, I sought to spy 

The Eastern plains and landscapes of the world, 

Washed by the ocean, in whose waters lurk 

Sea monsters many, various. From the tide 

A mountain reared its crest, far seen ; a stream 

Gushed from its lofty side, the parent spring 

Of four great rivers watering all the land ; and straight, 

Swift-sinking, on the hill I lit, and viewed, 

Far stretching, all the glorious plains and wealth 

Of that new nether world. 

BEELZEBUB. 

But paint, I pray, 
The garden and its form. 

APOLLYON. 

'Tis round, as is 
The earth itself ; — midway the mountain rears 
Its mighty head, whence flows the primal spring, 
Which, fourfold splitting, laves the earth ; here trees 
And groves rise ; lesser streams, clear, crystal, bright — 
The sap of life and nutriment of earth — 
Divide the waving green. Here onyx stones 
And Belellium gleam. The starry robe of heaven 
Grows dim, now earth displays a rocky womb 
Where gems and gold blaze brighter. Nature's wealth 
Seems gathered in one lap on earth. 

BEELZEBUB. 

But say, 

What air do these new creatures breathe ? 

APOLLYON. 

No breath 

Of angel is as balmy as the breeze 

Which man inhales ; all things, refreshed and blessed, 

Live in that air, which heaves Earth's womb, and bids 



80 



Seeds, buds, plants, colours rich, and flowers, with scents 

Of ev'ry kind, spring into life ; at night 

Refreshing dews fall, and, in measured course, 

The sun there rises, sets, his quick'ning rays 

On each herb shedding ; at one season green 

And fruit of ev'ry sort is found. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Describe 

The form and being of the creatures found 
In that fair region. 

APPOLLYON. 

Who would angel be 
When he sees creatures which surpass us all ! 
Who rule all other beasts. Millions of these, 
Roaming the land, I saw, or floating light 
On clouds, or darting through the streams ; each kind 
Bred in its element. What angel dare, 
Like Adam, rate each creature in degree 
And kind, and name all in due order ? There 
I saw the lion fawning on his lord, 
The tiger, crouching, owned his sway ; the ox 
Bowed his obedient horn ; the elephant 
Knelt at his feet ; the bear was tame and awed. 
The griffon and the eagle, list'ning, came 
At Adam's call ; fierce dragons, Behemoth, 
And e'en Leviathan crawled low. Nor need 
I tell how man was praised by vocal woods, 
Soft warbling, many-tongued ; how zephyrs sighed, 
And streamlets murmured to their sedgy banks 
Sweet music ever fresh. Had I not thought 
Of duty's call, I had forgotten heaven 
In Adam's bowers. 

BEELZEBUB. 

What think you of the pair 

There seen in bliss ? 



81 



APOLLYON. 

No creature in high heaven 
Ere pleased me as these two. Who could thus join 
A body to a soul ; call into life 
Angels of two-fold being, from the dust 
And soil of earth? The body, beauteous-shaped, 
Owns the Creator's art, stamped on the face — 
The mirror of the mind. Each member drew 
My wond'ring gaze, but on the countenance 
The image of the soul was breathed, and there 
The beauty of the whole concentrate shone. 
A godhead beams from human eyes ; a soul, 
Fit for great thoughts, swells from its lofty throne, 
The imperial brow. He sole — all creature else 
Dumb, senseless earthwards gaze — lifts his proud front 
Towards heaven, to God ; and his Creator greets 
With noble praise. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Nor praises he for nought. 

APOLLYON. 

He lords it like a god, the universe 

His all-obedient slave. Invisible 

The soul is, spirit and not dust, its essence 

Dwells in the brain, lives ever, incorrupt ; 

It fears rust nor decay ; a mystery 

Sublime it seems. Free will to think and act, 

With cautious virtue paired, and knowledge vast, 

Make man a creature 'fore whose majesty 

All angels are struck dumb. The wide world soon 

Shall peopled be with such : this single pair 

Is but the seed whence a great harvest springs, 

For thereto God as man and wife them joined. 

BEELZEBUB. 

What of his rib, his gentle spouse ? 

G 



82 



APOLLYON. 

With wings 
I veiled my countenance, to bridle thoughts 
And passions wild, which stirred in me at sight 
Of Adam, hand in hand with her, as through 
The groves they wandered ; and then, pausing, he 
Glanced sideways at his bride ; a holy fire 
Seemed kindled by that glance ; he kissed his bride, 
And she her bridegroom kissed ; their mutual gaze 
Fired sacred glows of love, joys unattained 
And unattainable by angels. Poor 
Is solitude like ours ! The mystic tie 
Which hallows earthly love, unknown in heaven, 
Proves us deformed ; and heaven has now no joy 
Since woman reigns not. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Thus, in order due, 

A new creation waxes. 

APOLLYON. 

In the soul 

Mysterious elements of beauty breed 
Desires reciprocal, which bind the pair 
In pleasures limitless ; their life to love, 
And love again, a longing thirst, in them 
For ever gratified, ne'er satisfied. 

BEELZEBUB. 

More clearly picture this fair bride. 

APOLLYON. 

'Tis vain ! 

Let the sun paint her, Nature's touch alone 
Can show her as she is. Both bear in them 
Perfection of all beauty ; he in form 
More noble, bold, majestic, born to rule 
Sole monarch ; she, all gracefulness to please 



83 



Her lord ; limbs delicate and softly round ; 
With purer, richer colours tinged ; with eyes 
Gentler, love -speaking ; and her luscious mouth 
Breathes sweeter music ; on her swelling breast 
Two ivory fountains rise, and beauties which 
I dare not name to spirits : search through heaven, 
The brightest angel pales before the dawn 
Of earth-born woman. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Who has kindled thoughts 
Which seem to haunt thee ? 

APOLLYON. 

Verily I scorched 
My pinions in that blessed fire ; for sore 
And heavy was my upward flight towards heaven : 
I parted, but with pain, and thrice looked back, 
Well-minded to return. No seraph beams, 
In heaven's most holy circle, with a sheen 
Bright as that creature's, with loose floating hair 
Spread like a veil of sunbeams, dropping pearls 
And diamonds round her, as she moves : she walks 
As in a mist of light ; day brightens where 
She comes, and, gladdened, magnifies the charms 
Of God's last fairest work. Pearls and their shells 
Seem fair to your untutored gaze, — her form 
And purity transcend all that ye know. 

BEELZEBUB. 

What is man's glory if his beauties fade, 
Like summer flowers at last ? 

APOLLYON. 

While Eden blooms 
This happy pair pluck from a tree, that grows 
'Midst in the garden set, an apple which 

G 2 



84 



Corruption cannot taint. This wond'rous tree 

The Tree of Life is named, and, fed by it, 

Man is immortal, dreads no death, becomes 

Like to the angels in the end, above 

His brother spirits waxes, and extends 

His empire o'er our heads ; for who can clip 

His soaring wings ? No angel can transfuse 

His nature and his being into forms 

Wrought in his mo aid; innumerable host ! 

For ever waxing through all time. . . . Now jud 

What in the end may come. 

BEELZEBUB. 

That man has might 
To overshadow us in growth. 

APOLLYON. 

Too soon 

That growth shall startle us ; though now his rule, 
Confined beneath the moon, seems low, he'll mount, 
And set his throne high on the top of heaven, 
God's equal, if God wills it, and He seems 
To man inclined, and all to him subjects. 

BEELZEBUB. 

What do I hear ? A trumpet ? Needs a 
Must follow. Go, its purport learn, and bring 
Us answer quick. 

APOLLYON. 

The Archangel Gabriel comes, 
With hosts attendant, herald, to proclaim, 
In name of the Most High, His purposes 
Towards men. 

BEELZEBUB. 

The Archangel's message let us hear. 



85 



GABEIEL AND CHOEUS OF ANGELS. 

GABRIEL. 

List, angels, list, ye hosts of heaven ! I come 
Herald from God, Most High, invisible, 
From whom proceeds all good — all holy gifts 
Flow constant. Inexhaustible in love, 
Unwearied and all-bountiful, supreme, 
Incomprehensible, this God-head formed 
Man in His image, and the angels ; these 
His creatures all, for purposes divine, 
And good unknown, subjected to one law : 
Strictest obedience, — thus ordained at last 
With him to reign in glory ; and the world 
Kaised, wondrous fabric ! for His pleasure, and 
Man's happiness, there to rule first, increase, 
And in his progeny acknowledge, serve, 
And honour his Creator ; by degrees 
Soar from Earth's limits, and by holiness 
Attain the heights sublime, where light divine 
Streams from His uncreated presence, hid 
From lesser angels' gaze. Though seeming now 
First of created spirits, we must bow* — 
Such is the Eternal's will — to man, extolled 
Above the angelic host ; hereafter raised 
To the clear light in which the God-head dwells. 
The unbegotten Word ye shall behold, 
Clothed in the form of man, anointed Lord, 
Head and sole Judge of all the myriad hosts 
Of spirits, angels, men, as sovereign King 
O'er his wide, undisputed Empire reign. 
E'en now His throne, eternal hallowed, stands 
High in the heaven of heavens ! Angelic powers 
Be ready, when, God humanised, He comes, 
To bow in adoration : paled the blaze 
Of Seraphim shall fade before the glance 
And God-lent lustre of mankind : then Grace 

Or 3 



86 



Dims nature, and all Nature's light ; such is 
God's will immutable, to you proclaimed. 

CHOKUS OF ANGELS. 

What Heaven decrees, Heaven's host obedient hears. 

GABRIEL. 

Faithful acquit ye, then, in service due 

To God, and man, whom God approves ; for know, 

He who serves, honours Adam, wins the love 

Of Adam's Father. From one common source 

Angels and men spring ; brothers are elect 

Sons, and joint heirs, if without spot and stain, 

Of the Most High. Love, undivided will 

To serve, be your sole law : in heaven, ye know, 

Eanged in three circles, in nine orders set, 

Th' Angelic host wait round their God on high. 

First Seraphim, and Cherubim, and Thrones 

Sit in dread council, round the Throne unseen, 

"Whence emanate the laws which they diffuse 

To the next circle ; Dominations, Mights, 

And Powers ; obedient to their will, ordained 

To serve man's needs, and order hold. To these 

Princedoms, Archangels, and all Angels bend 

Submissive 'neath the crystal firmament, 

Which spans the highest heaven ; and, sent abroad, 

Far as the universe extends, obey. 

As the earth multiplies, and Adam's seed 

Fills its wide bounds, each in these orders set, 

Shall minister in city, house, or careful watch 

Each sep'rate soul, and thus uphold God's throne. 

Immortal deities ! true spirits ! go, 

Hear, and obey great Lucifer, high Prince 

And Governor for God ; each, at his post 

Or task imposed, serve for God's glory, and 

The good of man. On golden scales present 

Sweet-smelling incense some, prayers, offerings, 

Desires of man ; and, hymning praises, let 



87 



The sound roll jubilant throughout heaven's courts. 
Let others tune the spheres ; sun, moon, and stars 
Hold in their course ; stretch a blue canopy, 
Or load the air with clouds, distilling rains ; 
Eefreshing, and soft sunshine, manna drop 
And dews, where, in fair Eden's bowers, our God 
Is worshipped now by primal Innocence ! 
Ye, who o'er air, fire, earth, and water hold 
Firm rule, so temper ev'ry element 
That Adam live unharmed ; the lightning chain, 
Bridle the storm, and beat the ocean back, 
Vast-rising round his home ; where'er he goes 
Watch on his path ; give succour with your arms, 
Nor let him stumble, for the Godhead counts 
His ev'ry hair ; — all who are sent to him, 
Ambassadors from heaven, hail him as Prince, 
And sov'reign lord of earth. This is the will 
Immutable of God.— Hear, and obey. 

CHORUS OF ANGELS. 

(Strophe.) 

who is He exalted high, 

Throned in a light impenetrate ? 
Time nor eternity can try 

To measure Him ; no counterweight 
Supports His being ; He alone 

Lives in Himself, nor prop nor stay 
Bear up His uncreated throne. 

His will creation doth obey ; 
In and around Him, undisturbed 

By thought of change, all things rehearse 
His will ; by Him are moved and curbed ; 

Sole Centre of the Universe ! 
Sun of all suns ! the Spirit, Life, 

The Soul of all that thought can sing, 
Or dares to sing ; the fountain rife, 

The heart, the ocean, primal spring 



88 



Of all things good, which from Him flow, 

And by His mercy, wisdom, power, 
Still are upheld ; who bade them grow 

From nought, ere yet complete did tower 
This glitt'ring palace-dome, the heaven 

Of heavens, where, with eyes veiled in wings 
Before His Majesty 'tis given 

To us to serve, while heaven's arc rings 
With songs of praise ; or, struck with fear, 

In adoration low we all, 
As His all-glorious Presence near 

Burns on us, on our faces fall ! 
Who is He ? Tell us ; sing of Him ! 

Sing loud His name in glorious lays, 
In words fit for the Seraphim ; 

Or have ye words fit for His praise ? 

(AntistrojjJie.) 

*Tis God ! unbegotten fount ! 

Unending source of all ! forgive 
The weakness wherewith we recount 

Thy praise. Created forms that live, 
And all that have no life, still find 

Eternity too short to name 
Thee ! dread Unutterable ! Mind, 

Nor tongue, nor sign can give Thee fame ! 
Thou wert, Thou art, and shalt be still 

The same Unchangeable ! All thought, 
All speech, e'en of Archangels, will 

With weakness and sore faults be fraught ! — 
Each being bears its name ; but none 

Dare call Thee by thy name ! No time 
The myst'ry solves which guards Thy Throne ! 

Who dares exalt himself ? Thou Prime 
Art what Thou art, self-known, revealed 

To none beside ! To whom was 't given 
To know Thee as Thou wert, ere wheeled 



89 



The orbs through space, ere stars in heaven 
Sang to Thy praise, all-glorions Light 

And Life-pulse of Eternity ? 
To whom revealed was the sight ? 

Who shared the awful mystery ? 
That sight sublime from ev'ry eye 

Was hid. Age comes to us, as days 
Eoll on ; o'er Thee unchanged times fly. 

Exalt the Godhead, sing His praise. 

(Epode.) 

Holy, holy, once more holy, 

Three times holy is our Lord, 
Without God nor high nor lowly 

Lives ; o'er all extends His word. 
Binding are His secret orders ; 

Though His will we cannot tell, 
Let us publish to heaven's borders 

What the faithful Gabriel 
Told with trumpet-tongue loud ringing : 
Honour God in Adam : singing, 

All that God decrees is well. 



SECOND A£T. 

LUCIFEK— BEELZEBUB. 

LUCIFER. 

Swift spirits, here my chariot stay ; why mount 
Still higher Lucifer, God's morning star ? 
'Tis high enough, 'tis time that Lucifer 
Sink at the coming of this two -formed star, 
Swift mounting from the abyss profound, to gain 
Heaven's pinnacle, and with its earth-born beam 
To dazzle greater light ! Deck not the robe 



90 



Of Lucifer with flashing gems, nor guild 

His forehead with the golden dawn and beams 

To which the Archangels bow : another dawn 

Comes blazing towards the light of God, exhales 

Our feeble lustre, as the sun by day 

Drinks in the light of stars : black, dismal night 

Falls over angels, and all heavenly suns ! 

Man has won favour — is the friend of Heaven ; 

Our slavery begins ; go, honour, serve, 

Obey, like humble tools, this race new-born ; 

Created, they for God, and we for them. 

"lis time that angels' necks support the feet 

Of this earth-treading race ; wait on them, bear 

Them in our arms, or on our wings, and set 

On Heaven's most glorious thrones the seed of earth. 

Our heritage is theirs, as chosen sons 

They take our birthright ; and these sixth-day sons, 

Made in God's image, seize our crown. With right 

He sways the sceptre, and the first-born fear 

And tremble at His nod. Vain is all thought 

Of opposition. Dost thou hear the law 

By Gabriel with the sound of trumpet blown 

From Heaven's high golden gates ? 

BEELZEBUB. 

Great Governor 

And Chief of Heavenly Powers, too well we heard 

That note which through the choirs of Heaven 

Sent an eternal discord ; clear and loud 

The trumpet rang, nor Cherub tongue required 

Its meaning to unfold ; 'twas needless toil 

To send out Apollyon to the orb 

By man inhabited, to spy his state : 

Heaven's will with him is manifest ; proclaimed 

Prime favourite of God, a safe-guard set 

Of many thousand angels at his beck, 

To watch, and bend, and hail him Prince elect 



91 



Of Deities and Powers ! Heaven's portals stand 

Wide open for the seed of man. A worm 

Bred from the dust, and moulded of foul clay, 

Aims at thy sov'reignty. Thou shalt behold 

Humanity exalted, — falling low 

On bended knee, with downcast eye, and mien 

Of lowliest slave, shalt worship him,- supreme 

In might, in glory, and authority. 

He, sole invested with the Almighty's light 

And power omnipotent, enthroned shall sit 

Beside the Godhead, and his empire stretch 

Far over utmost rounds, to time nor place 

Confined, subject to God alone, the source 

And centre of his boundless sway. "What need 

Of farther proof that God will raise mankind, 

And us debase ? For empire he, but we 

For service born. Lay down thy sceptre, for 

A lesser now usurps thy crown, or soon 

Shall wear a brighter ; yield those morning beams 

And starry glitter to this sun, prepare 

To hail him with loud songs, triumphant shouts, 

And God-like pomp. The face of Heaven is changed, 

And stars, expectant, rev'rent, hide your beams, 

And darkling worship this great dawning light. 

LUCIFER. 

Never ; no, never, while I shine. 

BEELZEBUB. 

There speaks 
Great Lucifer. I see him chase the night 
And shadows from the empyrean vault. Where he, 
Prince of the Dawn, bright Morning Star, first Light, 
And Governor next God, appears, fresh day 
Smiles glorious ; and his crescent beams shall ne'er 
Fade or be dimmed. His ev'ry word commands 
Are, and his will and nod a law none dare 



92 



Dispute ; the Godhead worshipped is, and served, 

Exalted, and adored in him ; and shall 

A feebler voice now thunder from the throne 

Of God invisible, and dictate laws 

To him, vice-gerent of Omnipotence ? 

Would God exalt his latest son, and set 

The seed of Adam o'er the Prince and Chief 

Of throned Powers ? That were an insult done 

To rights of heritage, a foul eclipse 

Of thy authority and light. Next God 

Thou rul'st supreme, none great, but thou, enthroned 

E'en at the very Godhead's feet ; let man 

Dare then to wrench aside the ordered spheres 

And ranks of angels, impious desecrate 

Our oath-bought rights, and heaven will rush to arms. 

LUCIFER. 

Eight dost thou judge, nor is it meet that Powers, 
And Potentates intelligent should let 
Their lawful birthright slip so light ; for first 
Unto Himself this law th' Almighty binds 
And holds. Least possible is change with Him, 
Or probable. Am I named Son of Light, 
And ruler of the light ? I shall defend 
My vested sway, nor yield to any force, 
Or earth-born show of violence : then yield, 
Yield all who will, no backward, coward step 
I'll ever take : this is my home ; nor woes 
Distressful, curses e'er shall daunt me or 
My spirit curb. I'll brave the storm, or fall; 
And if such fate awaits me, robbed of state 
And honour, with this coronet still pressed 
Upon my brow, this sceptre, I shall fall 
And drag with me this trusty, faithful band 
Of noble vassals, and full thousands more 
Who cleave to me. Such falling honour brings, 
Renown eternal ; and far better Prince 



93 



In lower spheres, than second, or still less 
Here in the hallowed light of heaven. Thus hope 
Still comfort lends ; I fear no darker ills, 
Or hindrances. But see, Heaven's herald comes 
This way, and bears God's sealed volume, given 
To him in special charge ; 'twere well to hold 
Some further converse with him. I'll descend 
And meet him. 

GABRIEL. 

Governor of heaven, how now ? 
And whither wert thou bound, I pray ? 

LUCIFER. 

To thee ! 

Herald, interpreter of heaven's decrees. 

GABRIEL, 

Methinks I read thy message on thy brow. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou who dost open up the mysteries 
Profound of God, I pray thee lighten me, 
Lift this dark heavy cloud. 

GABRIEL. 

What weighs on thee ? 

LUCIFER. 

This last resolve and purpose, which degrades 
The worth of heaven below the element 
And dust of earth, oppresses heaven, and lifts 
Earth from obscurest pools far higher than 
The starry host, sets man upon the throne 
Of angels, robbing them of gifts, first-given 
As rightful heritage, bids spirits slave, 
Toil, sweat for man ; and, henceforth servitors, 
To wait on, watch, and guard a worm of dust, 
Creeping from earth, and destined to outgrow 



94 



In number and authority the hosts 

Of heaven. Why doth infinite Mercy send 

Such rapid degradation ? Which of us 

Has yet in servitude been lax ? And how 

Can God, o'erlooking angels, condescend 

To man's estate, His nature and His likeness breathe 

Into a body finite, and Eternity 

Solve into latest life ? And how unite 

The highest and the lowest ; creatures merge 

In their Creator ? Who can comprehend 

This purpose dark ? Shall then Eternal Light 

Fade in the gloom of dusty worlds ? Shall we, 

Vice-gerents of the Godhead, humbly cringe 

To this new-fashioned, lusty Power, and see 

Unnumbered spirits, pure, etherial, bend 

To this coarse, sinking element, on which 

God prints His being and His Majesty ? 

— We spirits are too dull to comprehend 

This secret, therefore thou, interpreter, 

And keeper of God's hidden things, resolve, 

If 'tis permitted, this dark variance, strife, 

In the Almighty's will : explain thy words. 

GABRIEL. 

As far as is permitted thou shalt know : 

Much knowledge helps not always — ofttimes hurts 

The too keen searcher. The Most High reveals 

What He best judges for our good : the blaze 

Of His unveiled countenance would blind 

E'en Seraphim : with perfect wisdom He 

Partly reveals, then sets His seal ; 'tis ours, 

His servants, to obey. The reason, aim, 

And time when Christ, long generations hence, 

Born God and Man, victorious-crowned, shall come 

To rule the myriad suns and spheres, wide stretched 

Through universal space, Heaven hides from us, 

And bids us, patient wait, and learn : — obey 

God's trumpet, and His will by me proclaimed. 



95 



LUCIFER. 

Thus shall a worm, a stranger, dictate laws, 

And rule o'er us, here native ; and exalt 

His throne e'en higher than the mount of God. 

GABRIEL. 

Content thee with thy lot, the dignity 

And state to thee deputed. God it was 

"Who raised thee far above all Hierarchs 

And Princedoms here, but not to envy raised, 

Nor opposition, which, encouraged, hurls 

Thee, with bruised head and battered crown, to depths 

Far lower than the world thou deem'st so low. 

On God thy glory and thy power depend. 

LUCIFER. 

To Him alone ere now I bowed this crown. 

GABRIEL. 

Then learn to bow to his decrees, who rules 
All that exists, or shall exist, to ends 
And purposes beyond our view. 

LUCIFER. 

To see 

Man, lowly man, raised to the holy light 
And presence of the Deity ! to see 
Man, lowly man, godlike enthroned, adored 
With incense to the sound of myriad tongues 
Loud Hallelujahs hymning ! Lucifer, 
Proud morning star ! thy majesty, thy might, 
And diamond coronet grow dim, expire ; 
And heaven, ere while so jubilant, laments 
And pines away in gloomy sorrow. 

GABRIEL. 

No, 

Contentment is true happiness ; submit 
To God's wise purposes, and sorrow ne'er 
Shall enter here. 



96 



LUCIFER. 

Heaven's majesty sinks low 
Since the Divinity, through human blood, 
Pours His etherial Essence, and obscures 
His glory in the dust. We, spirits, pure, 
Incorporate, in being nearer stand 
To God our Father, and, with rev'rence due, 
We first — if creatures dare, eternity 
With late-born time, Omnipotence with power 
Weak, limited, confounding — might assert 
Likeness to Him, sole Author of all life. 
— How if the sun strayed from his sphere, and veiled 
In misty vapours, made earth darker seem, 
With dismal, smoky beams ; how would all joy 
Fade, vanish ; and all glory, life, die out 
In man, and the Sun lose his majesty ? 
— I see heaven blind, the stars extinct, and orbs 
In orderless confusion crashing through 
The eyeless universe, since God, prime source 
Of light, low-plunging, hurries His dread crown 
In the foul grave of Earth ! Forgive me, then, 
That I thy words thus question, and thy will 
Seem to resist ; for, jealous of God's crown, 
Eesolved His honour to uphold, I dare 
Thus far from strict obedience path to stray. 

GABRIEL. 

Thou'rt zealous in His service, but forget'st 

That He far better knows than we the end 

Of all his actions, and what most accords 

With His Omnipotence. Submissive, cease 

This idle questioning. The God-made man 

Shall, in His season fit, this seven-sealed book 

"Unfold. Thou see'st the shell, but can'st not taste 

The rip'ning fruit. In fulness of His time 

The causes, imports, aims of mysteries, 

Now darkly seen, shall be revealed ; when we, 



97 



Tried and approved, may enter with full joy 

Into the holiest sanctuary of God. 

Now it becomes us, lowly, to adore 

And, with this dawn ascending, hail the sun 

Which shall disperse all shades of doubt, and flood 

Our grateful souls with clear, meridian beams 

Of perfect knowledge; for, by slow degrees, 

Eev'rent and patient, now we learn to walk — 

Still by the hand of Perfect Wisdom led — 

To light ineffable, and holiness 

Full and complete. Vice-gerent Lucifer, 

First, mightiest subject, go ! subjection learn, 

And, learning, teach. I leave thee to fulfil 

What God commands. 

LUCIFER. 

Strict watch shall here be held. 

BEELZEBUB. 

What say'st thou now, Prince, Governor ! Did'st mark 

The message by this haughty trumpet blazed 

Through heaven ? God's will is clear, nor needs more light 

To teach its import ; and 'gainst thee 'tis aimed 

More than all others ; thy proud, soaring wing 

Must now be clipped. 

LUCIFER. 

Not lightly ; no, by heaven ! 
Let not a meaner dream to rule o'er us, 
While I can still resist. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Eesistance ! How ? 
Said Gabriel not, resisting, he would hurl 
Thee to destruction, splintering thy crown ? 

H 



98 



LUCIFEK. 

Now by that crown I swear to set my throne 
High on the top of heaven, beyond all spheres 
And starry zones ; the heaven of heavens shall be 
My palace, and my throne the rainbow ; stars 
The pavement of my halls, the rounded earth 
My footstool ; on the clouds, my chariot, borne 
High on the storm, I'll ride, with lightnings armed 
And thunders ; hurling 'gainst the vastly orbs 
I'll grind to dust all opposition ; brave 
The leader of heaven's warring ranks ; upheave 
Yon firmament, the adamantine arch 
Which spans creation ; shudd'ring, it shall split, 
And, crashing to destruction, vanish : — earth, 
Dragged in the ruin, shivered shall dissolve, 
With all the universe, chaotic heaped 
In wild confusion ! Such the lot of all 
Who dare oppose themselves to Lucifer. . . 
Call Apollyon. 

BEELZEBUB. 

Lo ! he comes. 

APOLLYON. 

Hail Prince ! 
Vice-gerent of Omnipotence ! dread Chief 
Of heavenly Deities, I offer meek 
My service, and attend thy will ; what would 
The Majesty from his obedient slave ? 

LUCIFER. 

I would consult thee, and thy concord gain 

In projects weighty, which can never fail 

If we but venture first to clip the wings 

Of Michael, that our enterprize, discharged 

'Gainst him, fail not. He leads the ranks of Heaven 

To battle ; and more warriors cleave to him, 



99 



The diamond-harnessed Chief of War, than all 

The chiefs can muster. Now, the plot lies thus : 

Man is exalted to the top of heaven, 

Far over angels, yea, their necks must be 

The steps by which he mounts ; and, grovelling low, 

They must creep like the worms of dust ; but I 

Now dare that title to dispute, and set 

My resolution 'gainst this law, my state, 

My star, my crown, my all inheritance. 

APOLLYON. 

A lofty enterprize ! and may thy crown 
Wax brighter ever ! I am honoured high 
By counsel asked in such a deed. Thy will 
Is noble, howsoe'er it end ; but, not 
To venture rashly, how begin the work, 
And safe confront this new decree ? 

LUCIFER. 

'Twere best 
By cunning counterplot to undermine 
This law which makes us slaves. 

APOLLYON. 

True, true, but think, 
Your vested might weighs little in the scale 
Against Omnipotence ! Look to your crown ! 
The balance is unequal. 

LUCIFER. 

While it swings 
The chance is not all gone. 

APOLLYON. 

'Gainst whom, or how, 
Or where strike first ? The very thought insults 
The Majesty of God. 

H 2 



100 



LUCIFER. 

Leave that : first march, 
Well weighing clangers, up the steep ascents 
And pinnacles, unsealed before, which guard 
The throne invisible. Plans, well enforced 
With courage then, can w T in e'en that, I trow. 

APOLLYON. 

Tempt not Omnipotence ; learn first of all 
To give place to a greater, or, too late, 
Eepentance learn. 

LUCIFER. 

Let the Almighty rest ; 
Equals 'gainst equals set, and feel whose arm 
Smites hardest, sorest : by one swinging stroke 
All heaven I'll desolate, and deck our ranks 
With glorious spoil ; time then to meditate 
Still nobler battle. 

APOLLYON. 

But, dost weigh the power 
Of Michael, leader of Heaven's armies ? He, 
In dutiful submission, holds the ranks 
And legions numberless ; he bears the keys 
Of God's bright armoury ; to him the guard 
Entrusted is, and, at all points, he keeps 
A faithful, watching band ; no sphere can move 
From its set course, or break the ordered rank 
And battlement of heaven. Such war to plan 
Is easy, but its conduct far exceeds 
Our might, and brings disasters in long train, 
Confounding and o'erwhelming us. What arms 
Or engines of assault can we oppose 
To batter down his hosts ? Though heaven set wide 
Its diamond portals, it could laugh secure 
At treachery, long siege, or quick assault. 



101 



BEELZEBUB. 

Let us but ratify our purpose grand 
With blows as stout, and soon the morning star, 
Blazed on our standard, shall usurp the state 
And Majesty of Heaven. 

APOLLYON. 

But Michael rears 
A brighter, prouder standard ; God's dread name 
Gleams on his banner like a burning sun. 

LUCIFER. 

What's in a blazoned name ? Heroic deeds 
Like these are not achieved by titles, pomp, 
Or heraldry of war ; but, courage high, 
Endurance, craft, and cunning arrogate 
And take the lead. Thou art a master, 
Fond of winning spirits by thy guile and craft ; 
Misleading, turning, and exciting them 
To what thou will'st. Thou canst defile 
The veriest saint ; lure and incite to doubts 
Those who ne'er doubted; try thy arts, and bring 
Division in God's armies, let the heads 
And their subservient members wrangle ; thus 
Vex them to mutiny, and, blinded, let 
Leaders and soldiers clam'rous call for one 
To lead them, and bring peace. If but a fourth 
Of heaven's vast armies thou canst lead astray, 
. Thy bold attempt we shall reward with gifts 
And dignities. Go, and with Belial plot 
,How best to act. It must be dark where he 
Can find no outlet, for his polished brow, 
Smoothed with deceitful smiles, can mask his thought, 
And lure the wariest ; go, consider well 
With him thy plans. The council's met, and waits 
My coming ; when ye come, admittance quick 
Ye'll gain both. Captain, guard our palace-gates, 

H 3 



102 



BELIAL— APOLLYON. 

BELIAL. 

God's mighty Governor from us exacts 
High service. 

APOLLYON. 

Willing at his word, we fly, 
Like arrows twain, shot from his bow. 

BELIAL. 

And one 

Our aim, but perilous the flight, and hard 
To hit the mark. 

APOLLYON. 

Be firm ; and heaven, convulsed. 
Shall tremble at the shock. 

BELIAL. 

Then let it split ; 

The die is cast. 

APOLLYON. 

But how begin, with hope 
Of sure success, this mighty enterprise ? 

BELIAL. 

Arms most we need, gain fighters. 

APOLLYON. 

Captains first, 
The rest will follow each brave lead. 

BELIAL. 

But deck 

Our purpose with some rare conceit ; disguise 
Will favour our designs. 



103 



APOLLYON. 

Give it a name. 

BELIAL. 

Well say, we rise, resolved to guard our rights, 
Our honour, and would choose a leader fit 
To govern us. 

APOLLYON. 

Well thought, no better plan 
I wish, or spark to raise a mutiny 
'Mongst chieftains and their bands, for, to uphold 
Their state and honour, and the lawful rule 
To which th' Almighty called them, ere He formed 
Man later, seems a duty clear ; since heaven, 
Our heritage and birthplace is, more fit 
For us, free from the grosser bodies given 
To man, for earth adapted, not endowed 
With pinions, 'gainst his nature to aspire, 
Like us, to lighter spheres. Day is too bright 
And glorious here for human eyes ; we know, 
Nor need refreshing night ; let man then live, 
Like other earth-born creatures, on the sphere 
Allotted to him first ; let him enjoy 
The riches of his Eden ; let him mark 
The rising, setting sun and moon ; divide 
The months and years ; and, with the circling stars, 
Watch the new harvest : gather in the fruits , 
North, south, east, west, abounding o'er the land 
God made for him. What needs he more ? We'll ne'er 
Bow to the sceptre of an earth-born lord. 

BELIAL. 

For ever rather keep him exiled. 

APOLLYON. 

That 

Sounds too attractive in all angel's ears, 



104 



Than they should hear unheeding ; like a fire 

'Twill spread, fast rushing through all orbits, spheres, 

And hierarchies of heaven. 

BELIAL. 

So best avoid 
All plodding dulness ; for our fortune hangs 
On speed in action and resolve. 

APOLLYON. 

Not less 

On calm discretion, and high courage most. 

BELIAL. 

That comes with numbers to our standard lured. 

APOLLYON. 

E'en now some murmur ; let us privately 

Mix with these ranks, urge on their plaints, and feed 

Their muttered griefs, 

BELIAL. 

Beelzebub, that prince 
Of high authority, must then unite 
His legions with these ranks, and sanction lend 
To their complaints. 

APOLLYON. 

But not too suddenly, 
Nor openly, but by degrees, as if 
Unsought, 

BELIAL. 

Then the vice-gerent must out-strctch 
His mighty hand, to favour our great, proud, 
And daring cause. 



105 



APOLLYON. 

His mind and purpose soon 
He in the council will unfold ; at first 
He must dissemble ; in the end spur on 
Th' excited multitude, ripe for revolt, 
To choose their head. 

BELIAL. 

On him depends our cause 

And chances of success. 

APOLLYON. 

What we have won 
We need not lose ; who most insulted is, 
In glory and dominion, he of all 
Must take the lead ; the lofty measure beat 
To which our myriads march. 

BELIAL. 

Just reason grants 
This crown to him : but, ere we deeper go, 
Let us weigh well the dangers, and not act 
Till the whole council has approved our plot. 

CHOEUS OF ANGELS. 

(Strophe.) 

Why o'er our palace-domes these shrouds ? 

Why, blood-red, shines the holy light 

Upon our startled sight, 
Through mournful shades and louring clouds ? 

What glooms, what mists obscure 

Th' unsullied, glorious, pure, 

Etherial, sapphire zone, 

Which, gleaming, hides the Throne 

Of God exalted high ? 
Why glares on us, portentous now, 



106 



Dark-red as blood, the Godhead's glow, 

Which, erewhile ev'ry eye 
Rejoicing hailed ? Who knows, who tells ! 

'Mongst angels all, w r ho late loud sang 
Hosannas, where the chorus swells 

High over Adam's home, while rang 
Heaven's arches with triumphant notes, 
Loud-pealed by myriad vocal throats 
Of angels all in heaven who live, 
Who tells, who can the reason give ? 

(Antistrophe.) 

When we by Gabriel's trumpet sound 

Enflamed, awaked, and with new lays, 

To God on high sang praise ; 
When od'rous groves, and gardens round 

Of Paradise again, 

Delighted, caught the strain, 

Black Envy from beneath 
Crept in ; then did some spirits droop, 
And, deadly pale, went, troop by troop, 

And held their vocal breath. 

The eye -brows heavy hung, and gloom 
Sat on the wrinkled foreheads ; loud 

The heavenly doves bewailed their doom. 
Erewhile so upright, simple, cowed, 
They 'gan to sigh, as if for all 
Heaven's wide domains were now too small, 
Since Adam's seed, in favour grown, 
Had snatched from them the highest crown. 

This pestilence invades our sight, 

And darkens thus God's holy light. 
Come, let us loving, mingle with the crowd, 
And seek to still again these murmurs loud. 



107 



ABD-EL-KADER.* 



[FROM TER HAAR.] 
I. 

" The dread of the desert, the lion is tamed, 

The lion who roar'd for his prey, 
Who the battle- set ranks, where his red eye flamed, 

With terror like death did dismay ; 
Who scorn'd that a stranger should ever be named 

As lord of the land he did sway. 

u The eagle has fall'n, his pinions are shorn, 
Let him spread out his wings as he will, 
With talons and beak let him tear on, forlorn, 

His own blood is all he does spill, 
And gnawing those bars, which can never be torn, 
Let him pant and drink grief to his fill. 

" Now paled is the star with the glittering beam, 

Which long watch' d the crescent beside, 
And over the mosques of the Moslem did gleam, 

And high in the heavens did ride ; 
But tott'ring at last, like a meteor did stream, 

And blood-red has sunk in the tide !" 

* Abd-el-Kader, ex-Sultan of the Arabs of Algeria, for nearly seventeen 
years struggled to save his country from subjugation by France. When he 
laid down his arms in 1847, he presented himself to his conquerors a hero 
in the utmost extent of that word ; for in the conduct of his patriotic war 
he was exempt from the slightest reproach. All he asked was respect for his 
property and person, and permission to live in some Eastern city for the 
remainder of his life. The French General Lamoriciere bound himself to 
comply with these terms, and the Due d'Aumale ratified the obligation ; but 
Abd-el-Kader was stripped of his property, hurried with a few relations and 
followers to France, and incarcerated in one fortress after another, and his 
applications for explanation of such treatment visited with silent contempt 
by the Government of Louis Philippe. In 1852, the present Emperor 
Napoleon released Abd-el-Kader, and he quietly retired to his home in the 
East. — Vide ChurchilVs Life of- Abd-el-Kader. 



108 



II. 

Dost hear that hase insulting song ? 'Tis me — 
They mock me, Abd-El-Kader, Emir, who 
With more than kingly might endow 'd, for blood 
Of priestly Marabout runs in my veins, 
Fought for my God and prophet, and have bared 
My vengeful sword against the infidel, 
And Frankish rule ; I am that eagle, I 
That lion fierce, who, growling, answer gave 
From Bora's wilderness, when thund'ring rose 
The battle-cry to heav'n. 

I, honour' d high 
By vassals, and by slaves revered, — I free 
Like to the wind which sweeps my hills, — in song 
Extoll'd as messenger of God, I am 
That star which fell from heav'n' s high dome ; to grief 
A wretched prey ; surrounded and stared at 
By soldiers, like some beast which huntsmen trap 
Upon my plains, and keep in durance vile. 

'Aumale ! is this thy faith ? Hast broken word 
And honour too ! Thou lying General ! 
Is this thy friendship's boon ? or know ye not 
"What ye both promised Abd-El-Kader, when 
His sword he did resign ? Ye said, " Nay keep 
Thy sword, though conquer' d, thou art safe 
From farther ill ; all France, with us, extols 
The courage which inflames thy soul ; thou hast 
Our soldier-word, which sacred is esteem'd 
By France, that soon again she'll break thy chains." 

keep that word ! forgiveness never will 

1 crave, but I demand fulfilment of 

That knightly word, which ye, in sight of heav'n 
And earth, me gave. I ask no grace, I scorn 
Your boons, but I demand my right ; fulfil 
The dear-sworn vows ye made. The God to whom 
I kneel destroys each lying man — the God 



109 



Of Christians, does He leave unpunished 
The breaker of His word ? Is perjury 
So light esteem'd by Him ? . . . . 

keep that word ! 
grant me liberty ! and I'll resign 
The lost inheritance for which I fought 
Too long : take back this sword, I lay it down, 
For not a sword suits now my hand, enslaved ; 
The Dervish-staff becomes me more ; I'll seek 
In distant lands sweet balm and comforting 
For wounds incurable, and, clad in garb 
Of pilgrim, eastward shall I go, and there 
Confess my sins upon my Prophet's grave ! — 

In vain lamented, and in vain I shake 
My chains ; in vain I tear my nails against 
The heavy-bolted door. Ha ! gilded hall ! 
Thou art for me a gloomy dungeon, e'en 
Though carpets soft I tread upon ; I, free 
And haughty son of Afric's strand, am doom'd 
Here still to sigh in exile, and my soul 
Shall never, never drink the fiery stream 
Of thy free air — my sinking Fatherland ! 

Glut your revenge ! and lash my back with cords, 
Mete out full measure to your deeds, and steal 
The sunlight from me, hateful through those bars ; 
Drag me, chain'd as your slave, down to a cell 
The foulest ye can dig, or plunge me else, 
Deep in the midland seas ; and then, ha ! then, 
Thou cursed Paris ! with a shout of joy, 
Let then thy Marseillaise hellish ring 
Through all thy streets, for Abd-El-Kader's fall ! 

III. 

had I the chance, were my chains cast away ! 

I'd fly as the sparrow-hawk skimming the wave, 
I'd roar as a lion that seeks for his prey, 

My tent in the desert would rally the brave ! 



110 



For the Islam I'd muster my tribes, one and all, 

And the earth would rebound, as I stamp on the sand : 
An army would rush to my side at the call, 

Like the desert-cloud burning, which sweeps o'er the land. 
My war-horse ! my war-horse ! I hear his glad neigh ! 

He sniffs up my breath, and he snorts as if scar'd, 
Then prancing, with foam-wreaths he litters his way, 

But stands, when I call, for his rider prepared ; 
He stretches his flanks, and he camel-like kneels, 

I mount to the saddle, I stroke his proud neck ; 
And heav'nward he rears, if my touch he but feels, 

Or daintily steps, at the bridle-reins' check. 
I pluck from my girdle my pistols, amain 

He bears me, where thickest the scimitars flame ; 
I stoop low my head, and thus hid in his mane, 

I choose in the smoke of the battle my aim. 
The onslaught is past ; and he arrow-like goes, 

As I point with my sword where my legions must rush ; 
Then I, panther-like, spring on the flanks of my foes ; 

Or, headlong careering, their centre I push. 
I hear my old war-cry — it rings in my ears ! 

I rise in the saddle, more fierce than of yore, 
I mow down their ranks, like a reaper who shears, 

My scimitar, thirsting, gets drunken with gore. 
Or yielding ; my flight swift and bird-like I take, 

Though lead rains around me, yet death nears me not ! 
From the folds of my mantle their bullets I shake, 

Unsinged by their powder, unharm'd by their shot ; 
And Victor I am, 'neath the shield of thy wings, 

Mohammed ! of prophets the greatest and last. 
Again as a captive thy proud foe I bring, 

And kill him with bullets, which 'gainst me he cast. 
Then the crescent shall wave o'er Algeria's strand, 

The Frankish tricolor, their standard, sinks down, 
And I'll raise on the spot, where the last bit the sand, 
As the sword hew'd him down, with the flag in his hand, 

The greatest of Mosques to thy name and renown. 



IV. 

Ah ! whither did I stray ? 'Tis done. No light 
Shines on my future way ! Earth has naught more 
To hope or fear from me, no longer man 
But worm am I, which men, despiteful, tread 



Ill 



Beneath their feet. Ha ! in the Book of Fate 
'Twas written, with an iron pen, that base 
And dastard Abd-El-Kader would resign 
His trusty sword, and yet — live in his shame. 

If I do hate and curse you — breakers vile 
Of Europe's peace ! you — scourge of Africa ! 
You — murderers of liberty ! my hate 
Grows with my grief, and, lightning-like, it gleams 
From out mine eyes, and though my strength should waste 
Itself away in hopeless cries, with all that's left 
Of wasted life, I'll spew my curse at you, 
And die. . . . 

The day of vengeance comes ! e'en now 
Has fate revenged me, and the sceptre proud 
Of Orleans is broken like a reed ! 
In exile, haughty son of Kings ! thy pride 
Is laid in dust ! thou King without a crown ! 
Thou mightier than the mightiest, 
Still lower than I fell — and without fame 
Hast sunk ! In truth, the hand of God was there. 
The day of vengeance comes ! e'en now I see 
A fire unquenchable, which saps the bloom 

Of France Ha ! dig in madness at the grave 

Which shall entomb your sons ! go raging on, 
And tear each other like the beasts, your guilt 
Shall speedy retribution bring, and that 
Which liberty ye deem'd, shall soon become 
Your sorest penalty ! 

The day of vengeance comes ! for on the clouds 
I see great Issa, and he weighs the fate 
Of down-trod nations ; but I tremble not 
To see him come ; I, Emir of the free 
And sun-lit wilderness ; the sentence dread 
That judge shall speak, may doom, by Afric's blood, 
Fierce vengeance on the guilty France ; 'twill grant 
To Abd-El-Kader, Emir, quittance free. 



112 



TO THE STARS. 



[FROM TER HAAR.] 

Are ye sheep of snowy whiteness, 
Which the night as shepherd leads, 

When the sun sinks down to slumber, 
Through the blue etherial meads ? 

Are ye lilybuds of silver, 

Op'ning at the hour of eve, 
Wafting down in balmy fragrance, 

Rest, poor mortals to relieve ? 

Or are ye the wax -lights burning 
On the altar of heav'n's dome, 

Which in solemn, silent darkness, 
Wraps itself when night doth come ? 

Are ye coast-lights, are ye beacons, 
Lighting up the sea we roam ? 

Gleaming friendly from the windows 
Of our Heav'nly Father's home ? 

Doth some saint gaze down upon us, 
From each glitt'ring star on high, 

Hailing us with fondest greeting 
From his ever-beaming eye ? 

Or are ye the cross of honour, 

Hung upon the Christian's breast, 

Since through faith he stood undaunted 
Whilst the cross of grief him press'd ? 

No ! ye are a book of praises, 
Written out in living flame, 

Hymns ye are, in silver graven, 
Blazing forth your Maker's name. 



113 



THE MOTHEE AND HEE CHILD.* 



[BY M. DOWES DEKKER.] 

" My child, tlie clock has struck, 'tis late, and list — 
The night-wind whispers, and the air grows cold, 
Too cold for thee, mayhap, thy tender brow 
Glows ; thou hast played the live-long day, and must 
Be weary now. Come, child, thy Tikar calls." 

" mother, give me but a moment, for 
So soft it is to rest here — and in there 
I shall sleep at once, and not e'en know 
What I may dream about ; here I can dream 
And tell you all, and ask its meaning — hark ! 

! what was that ?" 

" A klapper fell." 

"Does that 

Give the poor klapper pain ?" 

" I think not, love ; 
They say that fruits and stones want feeling" — 

"But - 

A flower, then, mother, does that feel ?" 

" No, child, 

They say it feels not." 

" When, then, mother, dear, 
When yesterday I pulled the pukuhampat, why 
Did you say then it pains the pretty flower ?" 

— " My child the pukul-ampat was so fair, 
You tore the tender blossom rudely, and 

1 felt for it, though it could nothing feel, 
It was so beautiful." 

" And, mother, say, 
Are you, too, beautiful ?" 

"No, child!" 
* From " Max Havilaar," a story of Life in Java. 



114 



" But you 

Have feeling?" 

" Yes, all people have, but not 

Alike." 

" And can feel pain ? When I lay down 
My heavy head upon your lap, do you 
Feel pain ?" 

"No, that can never pain." 

"But then, 

Dear mother, do I feel ?" 

" Yes ; do you not 
Eemember when you stumbled once, and bruised 
Your little hand against a stone, you cried ; 
And so you did when Sa-oedien had told 
How in the mountains yonder a young lamb 
Had fallen from the rocks and died, — you cried 
So very long ; — that, too, was feeling." 

."But 

Is feeling pain, then ?" 

" Often yes, but not 
Always, and sometimes not ; remember when 
Your little sister pulls your hair, and crows 
With her wee face near yours — you laugh : that, too, 
Is feeling." 

" And my little sister cries 
So often, — is that pain ? and can she feel ?" 

" Perhaps, my child, though yet her feelings are 
Unknown to us because she is so small 
And cannot tell us." 

"Hearken! mother, — there — 

What's that?" 

" A deer belated in the woods, 
And now fast homewards bounding to the mates 
It loves so well." 

"But, mother, has that deer 
A little sister too, and mother as 
I have ?" 

" I know not, child." 



115 



"But pity 'twere 
if he had not ; and, mother, look, ! look, 
What glitters in the wood — look how it moves, 
And dances — is it fire ?" 

"A fire-fly." 

" Could 

I catch it ?" 

" Yes, you could, but yet it is 
So tender that, if you but touch it, soon 
The little thing falls sick and dies, and shines 
No more. 7 ' 

" That were a pity — I'll not catch 
The pretty thing ; see there, it's gone — no, here 
It comes again, but I'll not catch it — there 
It flies again, and is so glad that I 
Have let it go — there, high up yonder — what 
Are those, or are they fire-flies too ?" 

" Those are 

The stars." 

" One, two, and ten — a thousand — 01 
How many are there ? 

" Child, I know not, for 
None ever told the number of the stars." 
"But, mother, he — does he not count them ?" 

"No, 

My darling ; no, he cannot," 

" Is it far 

To where the stars are ?" 

" Very far." 

" And have 

The stars got feeling ? would they, too, turn sick 
And lose their glitter if I touched them, like 
The fire-fly — see, it flies there still — would they 
Feel pain, dear mother ?" 

" No ; the stars, my child, 
Feel not ; besides they are too far away, 
You cannot reach them with your little hand." 
" But can he grasp the star ?" 

"No, neither he 

Nor any one." 
i % 



116 



" That is a pity, for 
I would so like to give you one — but when 
I'm big Fll love you till I can." 

The child 

Slept, and of feeling dreamed of grasping stars 
Within his hand ; — the mother for long time 
Slept not, but musing of the far one — dreamed ! 



THE NUKSE BY -MAID'S DEATH. 



[FROM TOLLENS.] 

She was an orphan child, friends she had none 
Nor kin ; a stranger from far lands ; alone 
She came, to ask, for faithfulness and zeal, 
A roof, a refuge, and a scanty meal. 

She was so gentle, modest, and retired ; 
She won each heart before she spoke ; desired 
And envied was their lot who saw her roam, 
And bade her welcome in a kindly home. 

How nimble, charming, amiable her ways ! 
Her step, so light and graceful, drew each gaze. 
How polish'd was her language, and so well 
Match' d with her voice, clear as a silver bell ! 

. How beautiful she was ! her face did smile 
With happiness unconscious of a guile ; 
Hers was unwrinkled purity of youth — 
A child-like soul, of most angelic truth. 



117 



How good she was ! what deep-felt love she show'd ' 
For those whom grief or anguish lowly bow'd ; 
How willingly each tear of woe she'd dry, 
While sympathetic tears bedew'd her eye ! 

And when she pray'd, God ! her mien and air 
Were such, when murm'ring out her whisper'd pray'r, 
That all who saw, their hands together laid, 
And then, unconsciously, with her they pray'd. 

No purer soul, with such rare grace refined, 

And holier heart, with happier, richer mind, 

And form more beautiful, with brighter virtue crown'd, 

Combined, were never in one being found. 

Alas, alas ! it was a dream soon told, 
She was a plant of far too tender mould ; 
She 'gan to wither, droop beneath her toil, 
She could not thrive in that strange foreign soil. 

Bleak, cold, and damp became that foreign land ; 
And sickness seized on her with clammy hand ; 
Bereft of strength, in pain long time she lay, 
Then bade farewell to earth and pass'd away. 

She died. Well then, that is the lot of all ; 
One young, one old, each must obey Death's call ; 
And then, the loss is not so great, 'twas said, 
'Twas but an unknown foreign nurs'ry-maid. 

She's dead. Well, women came into the room, 
And laid the body out with looks of gloom ; 
They dress'd it in a winding-sheet, and gave 
A corpse the fin'ry all wear in the grave. 

A coffin with its trestles then was brought, 
The last wood house, which even kings ere bought : 
They laid her in, and screw'd the lid down tight, 
And hid the dead and faded flow'r from sight. 



118 



A carriage came, and bore the load away ; 
And those who followed — few, few were they — 
Not one of them, God! woe-stricken walk'd, 
Not one who followed of the dead girl talk'd. 

And ! no sigh, no groan, no plaint was heaved 
By those whom she had left, but not bereaved ; 
Not one " Farewell" was sobbed — none shed a tear, 
" "We'll meet again," was not sighed o'er her bier. 

The foreign orphan — could she wish for more ? 
All are not nourished with the care they bore 
For her ; in sickness nought was her denied, 
A decent grave they gave her when she died. 

God ! God ! the purest innocence, 
The rarest bud of loveliness borne hence 
By hands ungentle ; buried without gloom, 

By hearts cold as the earth which was her tomb ! 

1 saw the grave, the coffin which contain'd 
The precious dust — 'twas all that now remain'd 
Of her so angel-like ; — -the digger's spade 
Soon hid e'en that. In earth she's laid ! 

I stood distracted, lost in pensive thought, 
Strange fancies to my brain, confused were brought 
With eyes fix'd on the grave I stood apart, 
While deep-fix' d sorrow moved my breaking heart. 

I looked around, to see if no one wept ; 

The grave was filled, away the mourners crept — 

I look'd in ev'ry face, searched ev'ry eye 

In vain ; none shed a tear, not one — but I. 



119 



EE COLLECTION. 



[FKOM BEETS.] 

Nay, think not that we have forgotten thee at last, 

Dear young one, e'en though thrice the autumn-blast 

Has striv'n to make thy grave unknown, and cast 

Sere leaves o'er it ; and though two years have pass'd 

Since a young daughter fair has come, 

And fill'd thy empty place at home. 

Nay, think not that thy image fades from sight, 

In midst of all the joy which fills the hearts, 

To which, again, thank God ! with fond delight, 

We press another infant bright ; 

Nay, fear not child, thy image from us ne'er departs. 

Thy parents' hearts are true, their offspring dear, 

Given up to God, are not forgotten ; here 

We trust the lost one to the darksome grave, 

And, comforted, look up to Him who gave. 

No might of years, no night of death, 

Can part from Him who drew their breath ; 

No new-found father's joy, no later mother's care, 

No God-giv'n consolation, peaceful, true, 

Can blot thy image from those hearts, which ne'er 

Count o'er their children, but they count the dead ones 

Ah me ! with heavy step and tearful eye 
I brought thy loved corpse to its burial ground, — 
A lovely spot ! where oaks and plane-trees high, 
And blooming chestnuts cast their shade around ; 
How beauteous was that hour ! the fading day. 



120 



With all the glory of its setting sun, 

In purpling gold, through the dense shade did play, 

And cast its last and loveliest ray 

Upon the grave, which waited for the dust it won. 

I know the church-yard well ; for twelve long years, 

In which I wield the pastor's stave, 

I've had to gaze in ev'ry grave, 

And give speech to my many thoughts in tears. 

There, for the dead, I often waited have, 

And always, waiting for the dead, 

Musing the while, with down-bent head, 

It did me good to walk around, 

And pensively my look to cast 

O'er each green gently surging mound ; 

And as I on some tomb-stone trod, 

Or on a new-laid yielding sod, 

Pause, and revivify the past. 

Oft I went round, my steps no spot did seek, 

Naught but pure chance directed then my way, 

But since that night blood and affection speak ; 

The church-yard gate I ne'er pass since that day, 

But well I know a spot, tow T 'rd which the first to stray. 

That gate, my child ! when, in the summer night, 

The nightingale's sweet note far o'er the church-yard rings, 

And tempts thy mother to go hear what song he sings, 

And, at my side, she goes there in the fading light ; 

"Whene'er she nears that gate, I've seen her start, 

And anxious peer through chink and bar, 

And through the tall grass, from afar 

Her glance upon the stone she'd dart 

Deep buried in the shade behind, 

The stone we know so well to find. 

Then silent we pass on ; a sigh oft from us slips, 
But neither speaks, e'en though desire be strong. 
At last : it is too much ! Thy name must on our lips, 



121 



Thy name, dear namesake ; then we talk so long 

Of thee, we sketch thy form, thy tricks of youth, 

Thy childish joy, thy sweet looks when asleep, 

That soft blue eye, from which young love did peep, 

Those cheeks, as roses fresh, that budding mouth 

Which, dying, kissed our hands. We say no more, but weep ! 

And, in the winter, when without the storm 

Eoars, crackling through the snow- clad trees, 

And shakes the window panes, we gather warm 

Around our fam'ly hearth, and sit at ease. 

And oft, thus circled by our offspring dear, 

The offspring which the Lord has vouch'd, 

The youngest on her mother's lap, and here 

Another at her feet low crouched, 

A third held to his father's breast ; 

When naught but thankfulness should reign 

In parents' hearts so highly bless' d, 

Still, as the eye, once and again, 

Bests on each glad face, beaming joy, 

Our hearts yearn for thee, dear-loved boy, 

And say, " There is his place ; thence was our darling ta' en." 

Then oft a tear starts to thy mother's eye, 

Thy father's voice grows faint in some quaint tale ; 

The children look up to him, wondering why — 

And know not how he thinks that now the pale 

Cold moon is shining o'er the grave in which you lie. 

Nay, fear not that we have forgotten thee. 

But thou, dost ever in that Eden, where, 

In Jesus' arms, thou grief nor tears dost see — 

Dost ever think, — I say not of our misery — 

But of our tender love and loving care ? 

There thou dost know how well we loved thee, dear ! 

And yet we did not envy thee the joys of heav'n, 

But when thy Saviour call'd, grieved, yet with joy could hear, 

And say, " Go child ! Go to the God who thee had giv'n." 



122 



WILLIE'S LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF HIS 

SISTER. 



[FROM VAN ALPHEN.] 

Dead ! dead ! is my little sister, 

Hardly more than twelve months old. 

Dead ! I saw her in her coffin ; 
Oh ! my sister was so cold ! 

Loud I called, " My darling Mary ! 

Mary, Mary !" but in vain. 
Oh ! her little eyes were closed ; 

I must cry for grief and pain. 

Always will I mourn about her, 
Scatter flowers o'er her grave ; 

Crying, think of all the kisses 
Which to me my sister gave. 

And to-morrow— but for me, too, 
Ere that time life may be sped ! 

Yesterday we played together ; 
Yesterday ! — To-day she's dead ! 



ESSAYS SKETCHES, &c. 



Me. Thomson's prose "writings are numerous and varied enough to fill a 
volume by themselves. Many of them were prepared in the form of lectures 
in aid of several colonial institutions ; some were criticisms on theological 
questions, and sermons ; but the majority were put before the public as 
literary contributions to the newspapers. From these the following selection 
has been chosen, as being alike interesting and instructive and character- 
istic of the author's mind and manner. 



HOLLAND AND ITS PEOPLE . 



Poob old Holland has somehow got into very bad odour 
abroad. Foreigners — and Englishmen in particular — laugh at 
and deride Dutchmen, and everything Dutch. The country has 
become a very Nazareth of reproach. 66 Can anything good 
come out of Holland ?" They sneer at the very idea of finding 
anything worth seeing or knowing in the country. " If I do 
this or that, I'm a Dutchman," says the supercilious Cockney, 
who won't, or perhaps can't appreciate anything beyond the 
sound of Bow Bells. But most of the people who speak so 
contemptuously about Holland, have never been in that country, 
and their abuse and criticism is as worthless as it is unsub- 
stantiated by personal experience. They gather their idea of 
the country and people from satires, such as Knickerbocker's 
History of New York. They do not appreciate Washington 
Irving' s delightful genial humour and warmth of feeling, and 
only laugh at and believe in his exaggerated caricatures of 
Dutch life. They have absurd notions about antiquated Dutch- 
men, dressed in an extravagant number of inexpressibles, and 
of Dutch ladies, wrapped in numberless garments, giving the 
fair wearers a rotundity and accompanying solidity not to be 
attained by the most stylish crinoline. Most foreigners who do 
visit Holland do the whole country — as it is called — in three or 
four days. They go there prejudiced beforehand, and if they 
publish their travels — which they are sure to do when they 
come back — they are in the style of the Essays, " Down Among 
the Dutchmen," which appeared in Household Words some years 
ago. The only book which I have seen which even pretends to 
give an impartial review of Holland, as it is at present, is by a 
Frenchman, Esquiros. Other travellers tell most astounding 
stories about the absurdities which they have seen, and keep up 
the ridiculous ignorance which prevails in England regarding 



126 



everything Dutch. The unprejudiced traveller or sojourner in 
Holland soon finds how silly all that abuse and ridicule is. 
He may and will see much in the country and people which is 
to blame — and what country and people are perfect ? — but he 
will also find much that is good and great ; and if he looks back 
upon the past history of the people, he will speak respectfully 
to and of the descendants of those who once ruled the world. 
But Dutchmen are, to say the truth, very Chinamen — perfect 
paradoxes of conflicting characteristics, and it is not an easy 
matter to form or give a fair and accurate description of them 
and their country. It is their glory and their boast that they 
are, and ever have been, a singular, a protesting people. They 
are ashamed, it is evident, of the present position of their 
country : they manifest an almost silly anxiety to hear foreigners 
talking well of them and their land, and yet they display a cool 
indifference to any suggestions of improvement. But, though 
seemingly ashamed of it, their love of country is more 
touchingly tender than that of any other people. The 
very soil they tread on is not simply a gift of nature, it is 
an inheritance raised up and bequeathed to them by their 
fathers. They scooped it from the sea, covered it with the 
richest fruit of industry, and, by enterprise and perseverance, 
drew towards it the wealth of the world, made it the chosen 
market i:>lace of merchants, and the battle field of princes. 
They : these stout old burghers — with the same undaunted 
courage which made the Batavian Legion the pride, the forlorn 
hope of the Boman Army — marched in the vanguard of 
civilization ; and the light of Liberty and Beligion, shining 
among them like a beacon, lured exiles for conscience sake from 
all nations to seek a home in the little Bepublic which had dared, 
and, after the most glorious struggle recorded in history, sub- 
dued the might of Emperors and Popes. Fatherland and Orange 
became to the Dutchman not merely a political watchword, but 
a religious sentiment, fondly clung to and supported through all 
change. The strictest doctrines of the Beformation became, 
not as with the Puritans of England or the Covenanters of 
Scotland, the principles and protest of a party, but the ex- 
pression of the National Faith ; and religious and political life 



127 



and prosperity were connected, nay amalgamated, in such a 
manner that Church and State were, in the palmy days of the 
Eepublic, inseparable, almost synonymous terms. The haughty 
merchants, the burgomasters and councillors who dictated 
peace or war to Princes, were the humble and pious elders of 
the Church, and met in solemn synod to deliberate upon the 
spiritual wants of the people. The ministers of religion were, 
on the other hand, not only pastors and preachers, but advisers, 
and often leaders in weighty affairs of State. Eepublican in 
Government, the people, nevertheless, held the House of Orange 
in higher and holier esteem than the most ardent Eoyalists ; for 
the veneration bestowed upon the great founder of their liberties, 
William the Silent, descended upon his children, and Father- 
land and Orange were alike their boast of the past, and their 
hope for the future. The two words are for ever on the lips of 
Dutchmen even in our day, and the characteristic, seemingly 
meaningless expletive, " Vaderland" — which I dare say most 
of my hearers have heard uttered by the South African boer in 
moments of excitement — proves how deep the old feeling has 
taken root even here. Slow, sure, and steady — not impulsive, 
but daring and devoted in moments of trial — with profound 
convictions, and adhering to them with most dogged determina- 
tion — warm-hearted and upright, but undemonstrative though 
earnest in feeling and action — and over all a sombre religious 
zeal, sometimes verging upon fanaticism — such was the Dutch- 
man of the past. Let those of my hearers who have not done 
so- already, read the grand story of the stout old burghers of 
the Dutch Eepublic, as told by Motley, and they will, I feel 
sure, think and speak better of Holland than they could before. 
Many of those whom I have the honour to address are descend- 
ants of the people to whom I have alluded, some are the 
descendants of those persecuted pilgrims who first fled to Hol- 
land and at last found rest for themselves in this far land. To 

them we owe this, the land of our birth or adoption and a 

South African's heart — be he of English or Dutch descent 

ought to kindle when he looks back into the earlier history of 
the nation which founded this Colony. 

But the Netherlander of the present day has lost much of his 



128 



great and distinctive nationality. He and his country have 
gone down in the world's estimation; but not so low in yours, I 
hope, but that you will listen with some interest to my impres- 
sions of the present aspect of the country. 

It was a beautiful morning when I, for the first time, saw the 
coasts, or rather the windmills and towers of Holland, for these, 
being the highest objects, are seen even before the land on 
which they stand. As we approached nearer a long sandy 
beach stretched out on the horizon. No hill, no rising ground 
that could even be dignified with the name of hillock was to be 
seen, and when we drew near land, no houses — or at most only 
the roofs of them peeping up behind the dykes — could be dis- 
cerned. We passed through innumerable islands and peninsulas, 
and winding through many creeks and land-locked bays — if land 
it could be called which hardly appeared above the surface of 
the water — we reached Helvoetsluis, where I left the steamer 
and got on board a " trekschuyt," in order to have at once an 
opportunity of testing the old traditional mode of travelling, 
measured, as I had been told, not by miles but by pipes. I 
could not help recalling the graphic, and as I now saw, strictly 
accurate description given by Goldsmith (who passed some 
time in the country) in his " Traveller," and which you will 
allow me here to quote, as the lines may not be known to some 
of my hearers : — 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies, 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onwards, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an empire and usurps the shore. 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail ; 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 



129 



Everything had such a strange and novel look, and yet there 
was a something which struck me as so familiar in childish 
days, that I was deeply interested and affected. 

Let me take you on board the " trekschuyt," and let us take 
a look at our fellow passengers, and then at the country through 
which we are passing. The " trekschuyt" — the national, and 
still in many parts of Holland, the only mode of travelling — is 
a long, narrow, shallow, flat-bottomed boat with a raised cabin, 
the roof of which forms the deck, stretching from stem to stern. 
There are only two or three boatmen on board ; one to attend 
to the helm, another to the passengers, and a third perhaps to 
cast loose the rope by which we are dragged along at the inter- 
minable bridges a,nd sluices which we have to pass. Ours, 
being a swift passenger-boat, is drawn by a lean old horse, 
which, with the driver perched sideways on his back, trots 
drowsily along the canal about fifty yards in advance of the 
boat ; but we shall, in the course of the day, pass scores of 
heavier boats, laden with goods and produce, and wearily 
dragged along at a snail's pace by half-a-dozen women literally 
yoked to the " sleeptouw" as it is called, while their lords and 
masters are seen lazily lolling about the boat, smoking the pipe, 
which never goes out in Holland. This sorry sight makes a 
painful impression upon a gallant and compassionate stranger, 
but he soon hears that women won't and can't be kept from 
such work in Holland ; and certainly in no civilized country do 
women take such a large share of labour into their hands, or do 
it with such a good will. Many are dressed like you and me, 
and the type of face is quite familiar — (I see many before me 
now who look as really and decidedly Dutch as if they had 
never left Amsterdam in their lives) — but what a variety of cos- 
tume beside ! Look at that burly old fellow, dressed in vel- 
veteen knee-breeches and serge monkey jacket, the back buttons 
of which you will observe, when he turns round, lie somewhere 
between his shoulders, his capacious middle spanned by a broad 
belt, ornamented in front with a huge silver plate, gleaming 
like a barber's basin, and his feet encased in wooden shoes, 
called "klompen," so gigantic and unwieldy-looking that you 
think he will never be able to rise, or at least to walk from the 

K 



130 



place where he is sitting. Look at his vrouw and daughters, 
with complexions fair and clear as waxwork, with forms as 
round and plump as — well I really don't know what to compare 
them to — and looking comfortable, clean, and contented, as if 
they had nothing on earth to do but eat, drink, and wash their 
faces. But what monstrous perversion of taste has tempted them 
to dress themselves in the hideous way in which they are tricked 
out? They have horns — yes, positively, ladies — golden horns 
sticking out from behind their ears, from which depend orna- 
ments, the size, if not the value of which would rouse the envy 
of a Kafir ; their foreheads nearly hid behind a cumbrous coro- 
net of gold, plentifully studded with brilliants, and the costly 
whole surmounted by an enormous structure — I dare not call 
it a bonnet, for it looks more like a drawing-room coal-scuttle 
than anything else-^- profusely garnished with very bright 
ribands. A staring red or yellow handkerchief, over which fall 
the long lappets of their costly lace caps, is tightly wound round 
their shoulders. Their waists, or rather the waistbands of their 
gowns, for waists they have none, are immediately below their 
arms, and thence, downwards, the figures are enveloped in a 
multitude of garments as rigidly stiff and solid-looking as if 
they had been carved out of wood, and then painted by an 
artist who delighted in the contrast of colours. Look again at 
that giant, with bright blue eyes, and golden hair and beard 
flowing out from the broad flaps of his Spanish sombrero. He 
is dressed loosely in a blue flannel shirt and trowsers, so wide 
and capacious, that if he has not actually ten other pairs under 
them, he has quite room enough for as many ; and his feet and 
legs, as far as the knees, encased in immense jack boots, into 
which that little dandy near him, from the Hague, might stuff 
his whole body. He is a fisherman from Zeeland, a representa- 
tive of those daring seamen from w r hom sprung the admirals 
who, in olden times, swept the seas with a besom at their mast- 
heads. Talking to him is a pretty maid, her hair, the pride of 
most of her sex, shorn close to the roots, and her head covered 
with two golden or silver plates, like a helmet, over which is a 
smart coquettish cap of the purest and most delicate lace. She 
is dressed far more neatly and plainly than the farm girls from 



131 



North Holland. A tight-fitting jerkin, gay, but becoming in co- 
lours and pattern, shows the symmetry of her figure, and a plain 
black stuff gown falls in graceful folds to her ankles. She is a 
travelling wafel girl from Friesland, and is probably going to attend 
one or other fair in Utrecht or Gelderland. All the passengers 
are quiet and staid in their behaviour, many of them perfectly 
taciturn. There is that old gentleman near the stern. I have 
watched him for the last hour. He has not stirred, he has not 
spoken ; but smoked as if his life depended upon the number 
of puffs. And now he pulls out his watch, as large as a ship's 
compass, turns to his wife with a grave nod, and tells her it's 
three o'clock. She had asked him an hour before what time it 
was. She has quietly and contentedly awaited the answer till 
now ; says " Thank you," — and they both relapse into silence for 
the next six miles. All the males, I dare venture to say, with- 
out a single exception above ten years, are smoking, and all the 
females are busy with, or holding in their hands, some of the 
mysteries of feminine handiwork. 

But let us turn from the passengers to their country. We 
are literally sailing over the country. About twenty feet below 
us it stretches out in all directions, a vast plain richly cultivated; 
not a square rood left unoccupied. It is intersected by canals 
and roads, both having trees at the sides. Along the former 
you see the sails of inland boats gliding behind the trees. Along 
the latter, which are paved and smooth as the courtyard of a 
palace, roll cumbrous four-wheeled wagons, very like those we 
have, and antique-looking two-wheeled gigs, like huge spiders, 
— very unlike anything, at any rate to be seen here, in the shape 
of a vehicle. Numerous villages, with their red tiles gleaming 
in the sun, are scattered over the country. Thousands of cattle 
graze on the rich pasture grounds, and the dense population is 
everywhere seen lazily but uninterruptedly gathering-in the 
plentiful harvest, or otherwise engaged in the multifarious occu- 
pations of a life which seems to require no exertion, and yet 
does not admit of a moment's inattention or relaxation. Every- 
thing bears the air of quiet industrious determination to make 
the most of things as they are : and yet to the stranger, who 
has just left the bustle and activity of England, the life and 
k a 



132 



enjo} T ment of France, or the ceaseless dreamy plodding and 
plotting of Germany, there seems such a listless indifference to 
progress, such an utter stagnation of life in the little country 
into which he has come, that he cannot help fancying that he is 
gazing at a puppet-show, where everything is done by clock- 
work, where the inhabitants are mere automata, acting not from 
the impulse of passion, principle, or reason, but from mere 
habit. 

But let me not detain you too long on the trekschuyt. 
We reach Eotterdam, the most bustling and progressive town 
in Holland; w T e go on by rail to Delft, Leyden, the Hague, 
Amsterdam, Utrecht, Gouda, and back to Eotterdam, and w T hat 
impression is left upon our minds ? In the first place, un- 
mingled astonishment at the wondrous patience and persever- 
ance which could raise, not the cities and towns and villages 
alone which we see, but the fertile plains, the very ground o'er 
which we go, out of the sands of the sea. We see all around 
us trophies of War and Peace, of Art and Science, and w T e need 
no one to tell us that this, if it is not now, has once been a 
great country. The grand old cathedrals are crowded with the 
tombs and monuments of Princes, Generals, and Admirals. 
Treasures of art, productions of native talent, are ranged in 
galleries whose extent and value perplex us when we remember 
the size of the country, — the whole of which is a monument of 
scientific skill. We view with surprise the immense dockyards 
and warehouses of Amsterdam ; we gaze in wonder upon 
that colossal structure whose foundations rest upon 76,000 
piles, once the town hall of the great Burgomeesters, and 
now the palace of their kings. Its vast audience hall, with 
its marble walls and roof, and star-gemmed floor, is hung 
around with the tattered flags of every nation, proud trophies 
of something greater than what is now sarcastically called 
Dutch courage. But while we view all this grandeur, we are 
oppressed with a feeling of melancholy. Everything looks old; 
• — the energy w T hich achieved such triumphs over man and 
nature seems exhausted. Not long since I heard the Dutch 
described by a gentleman, well known to those interested in 
politics in this country, as a " nation who sit still and watch 



133 



motion," and there is a great deal of truth — in fact a graphic 
accuracy — in the definition, which must strike every one at all 
acquainted with the strange and interesting people so par- 
ticularised. They seem to live in the past, and, calm and 
content in the possession of the wealth and liberty which their 
fathers have left them, they watch the great world, in whose 
very centre they are placed, whirling past them in its mad 
career, careless what it brings or takes, so it but leave them in 
the enjoyment of their otium cum dignitate. 

The Dutch character is the veriest puzzle, which it would 
take a Lavater accurately to investigate or define. Look 
at their broad, open countenances, and you would think 
it a very easy task to read the character of the inner 
man which is so fairly, and, as it would seem, honestly 
mirrored on the face. But study them, and you will find 
that, beneath that simple transparent exterior, there is a 
depth of conflicting feeling and passion, which represents, in 
some form or another, all the national- character- studies which 
you have yet attempted. The Dutchman would, in manner, be 
a Frenchman ; in habit and action, external as well as internal, 
an Englishman ; and yet in thought and education remain a 
German. He apes everything, and apes it with such a readi- 
ness, that a superficial observer is often puzzled to discover his 
nationality ; but probe more deeply and you will soon discover 
that there is something unreal about the foreign garb which he 
chooses to assume, and which at heart he despises himself for 
assuming. The gay, smirking gallantry and mannerism which 
is a second nature to a Frenchman — which some cruel fate 
seems to have forced upon him — is most loathsome and burden- 
some to him at the very moment when he takes the most pains 
to display it. The haughty bearing and the quick fire and 
headlong determination of action of the Englishman fail him at 
the very moment when he would most wish to convince you 
that he is capable of exhibiting these. And last, the patient 
investigation, and laborious exposition of thought peculiar to 
the German, break down and give way to imperfect practice, 
after all, before the triumph of reason has been achieved. In 
short, to give a brief, but I trust not wholly inaccurate definition 

K 3 



134 



of the national development of Dutch character, the frivolous 
modishness of the Frenchman, the imperious self-reliance of 
the Englishman, and the experimentalizing refinement of the 
Germans don't suit him, but painfully incommode the most 
matter-of-fact people in creation. The Dutchman is awkward 
in manner, slow and hesitating in habit and action, and cool, if 
not cold in expression ; but find the way to his good, honest, 
manly Dutch heart, and you will see that there are traits and 
qualities strictly individual and original, which will force you to 
confess that he is not the mere copyist of others which he would 
seem to be. The warm and true-hearted geniality of character 
lurks under a stiff frigidity which repels the too obtrusive 
stranger ; but break through the icy surface, and you will find a 
warm spring of love and passion welling up beneath, calm and 
unbroken as their own broad rivers ; but, full and strong as 
these, the current of their thought flows on, and there are not 
wanting bright sparkling little streams of fancy and feeling 
glimmering through the landscape like their own pellucid 
lakes. 



THOMAS PEINGLE. 



The celebrated sculptor Donatello had achieved his master- 
piece, the St. George. It stood in his studio at Florence, and 
among the crowds who nocked to admire the production of 
genius was a youth — a mere boy — with broad high forehead and 
fiery eye, who gazed with interest and admiration upon the 
statue. The sculptor was anxious to hear his opinion, for he 
recognised the great soul that sat within that massive brow and 
looked out from those gleaming eyes. The boy heeded not his 
queries, but walked in rapt silence and admiration from one 
position to another, carefully and minutely examining each 
feature and detail of the work of art. At last he stopped before 
the statue and muttered, ' ' It wants but one thing." " What is 
that ?" eagerly inquired the sculptor. " The gift of speech !" 
was the answer. 

The youthful Michael Angelo — for he it was — was a severe 
but complimentary critic. Perfect indeed must be the work of 
art that can elicit such criticism. And yet most of us have, I 
doubt not at times, after the perusal of the biography of some 
great and good man, or after gazing fondly upon the sculptured 
or painted likeness of some very dear friend, now vanished into 
the gloom of the grave, or for ever separated from us by the 
grievous chances of life, lifted dimmed eyes to heaven, and 
yearningly breathed the simple but forcible prayer of the poet — 

A shadow was before me, 
Not thou but like to thee ; 
. Ah, Christ ! that it were possible 
For one brief hour to see 
The souls we loved. . . . 

Could the book, could the picture, be but inspired with the gift 
of speech ! There are those even whom we have never seen, 
who, by the records left of their lives and works, have so woven 
the beauty and loveableness of their characters into our 



136 



thoughts, into our very being, that in like manner we long to 
have lived, to have conversed with them, if but for one brief 
hour. There are many still living in this country who knew 
and loved the subject of the following sketch — many others who 
have learned to love him for his works' sake — but too many 
who know nothing more of him than that his name and fame 
are intimately connected with this Colony. My object is simply 
to quicken and refresh the love and admiration of those who 
perhaps know him- better than I do, and to excite the interest of 
those who know less of him than they ought to know for their 
own sake and for the sake of this the country of their birth or 
adoption. 

The name of Thomas Pringle is one very dear, not 
only to many in this country, but wherever the English 
language is spoken. It is a name well known in the literature 
of the Empire as that of one of the sweetest singers, of the 
purest minded and most tender-hearted of the sons of Genius. 
But Pringle is more to us than simply one of the minor poets 
of Great Britain. He was the South African poet, colonist, and 
philanthropist. Whether we are conscious of it or not, we owe 
much to him for the interest in this country which his writings, 
both poetical and prose, excited and still excite abroad ; but we 
owe more to him, that he spent some of the best years of his 
life in this land, and by high XDrinciple, precept, and practice 
materially helped to elevate the tone of colonial thought and 
feeling. He was one of the few men who emigrated hither with 
other and higher motives than simply to better their pecuniary 
condition. He ever sacrificed private gain for public good. 
Feeble in body, he was strong and dauntless in mind, , and 
though thwarted and opposed, gave the. rich fruits of his intel- 
lect and genius for the enfranchisement and exaltation of the 
debased and enslaved races — white as well as" black — among 
which he lived. He was one of two who, more than all others 
perhaps, battled in years not long past, but very different from 
those in which we live, for that noble freedom of thought and 
expression, and that manly independence of action, without which 
a young colonial community never can prosper. They man- 
fully, consistently, and perseveringly, and at great personal risk 



137 

and sacrifice, educated the people to a higher, purer con- 
sciousness and appreciation of the civil and religious duties, 
rights, and privileges of older and more enlightened com- 
munities. Their teaching was not all in vain. We have 
reaped much, and we and our successors will yet reap richer 
harvest from the seed they scattered broadcast over the land. 
Pringle is long since dead and gone. He did not even live long 
enough in this country to see much, if any, result on his labours 
here ; but the other, thank God, is still living with us ; and if 
Pringle had done nothing else for the Colony, it would owe him 
a deep debt of gratitude that it was owing mainly to his per- 
suasion that John Fairbairn — a man worthy of the honour and 
esteem of this and succeeding generations of colonists — became 
a citizen of Cape Town :* his portrait hangs in the Town 
Hall of our Colonial Metropolis, beside that of the Founder of 
the Settlement, Van Eiebeek ; and long years hence, when this 
Colony may have become a great nation, these two, with 
Pringle, will still be fondly remembered and spoken of as the 
first and foremost representatives of all that is great and good 
in the history of the country. 

The ancestors of Pringle were Scottish border farmers, a 
noble race, from whom many of the poets, preachers, warriors, 
and statesmen of old Scotia sprung. It is a notable fact in any 
country, but especially in Scotland, how great a majority of the 
gifted sons of song have sprung from the humbler ranks of 
rural life. It is not among the high and the noble, the great 
and the powerful, the rich and the refined, that we are ever to 
look for those bright spirits which illuminate the pages of his- 
tory and biography. Genius displays itself as well in the 
humble abode of poverty as in the princely mansion of opu- 
lence. It cannot be lured by the splendours of nobility nor 
tamed by the rough hand of authority. It cannot be bought 
by the wealth of this world, nor can it be learned in the schools 
of philosophy. It is the free gift of an impartial Creator, 
sparingly but fairly distributed. It raises the poor man, and sets 

* This paper was written in 1863, shortly before the lamented death of 
Mr. Fairbairn. 



138 



him above princes ; it breaks down the cold, meaningless 
barriers and formalities of a too stupidly fastidious world, and 
asserts and vindicates its divine superiority. Burns was the 
son of a poor cottar. Born and bred in the lowest ranks of 
society, " the poetic genius of his country," to use his own 
words, " found him at the plough and threw her inspiring 
mantle over him," and made him the glory of his country and 
the boast of his countrymen. Pringle was the son of a small 
farmer, fortunately not so poor but that he could afford to give 
his son a University education. From his earliest youth he 
was noted for that singular purity and delicacy of thought and 
feeling which so delightfully express themselves in all his life 
and writings. Though a remarkably healthy infant, an acci- 
dent which happened to him while yet in his nurse's arms, 
had lamed him for life, and withdrawn him in youth from 
those rough and healthful sports which give vigour to 
the frame. When his schoolmates were engaged in their 
games and sports, he sat apart and watched them, or 
hobbled away nimbly on his crutches to some retired spot 
with a book of ballads or of battles, and in those glens so 
rich with historic and poetic associations, read the loves and 
feuds and feats of arms of the chivalry of the border. Naturally 
of a buoyant, sprightly disposition, the restraint and retirement 
forced upon him by his early accident made him contemplative 
and meditative, and in all such cases, where the perceptions are 
quick and penetrating, and the feelings tender and excitable, 
Nature, if left to her course, nurses a child into a poet. If it 
be true that " the child is father of the man," most true is it of 
poets. Indeed we all know the saying of the old Boman bard, 
that a poet is born a poet. No education or training can give 
the sacred fire, although they may do much, if properly and 
carefully directed, to fan the flame. The original sparks and 
flashes are heaven-born. They are often suppressed, if not 
wholly extinguished, by forced and distorted culture, or by 
contact with the dull cold rigour and routine of life. 

Much of the mischief and misery of after years results from the 
unnatural education of youth. As the impressions have been, so 
will be the expressions. The heart of a child is a sacred thing. 



139 



It is an unwritten tablet on the highway of life. Every passing 
person, object, or event graves a letter upon the tablet. Every 
misfortune or wrong step, however great or little, is like a 
fall in a river, over which the calm soul is hurled in a torrent 
of tears. Every breath of slander and reproach, of praise and 
flattery, stirs the quiet waters ; every fiercer blast tosses up the 
passions, and leaves deep traces which can never be smoothed 
out again. Look at a great river, rolling its mighty flood of 
waters to the ocean, and bearing upon its bosom the freighted 
wealth of kingdoms. Mark its majestic course and irresistible 
power. No might can turn its tide. Trace that river to its 
source, and you will find it, far up among the mountains, spring 
from the earth, a feeble, insignificant streamlet. Mayhap you 
will find a child playing beside the fountain from which the 
waters flow, and turning them whithersoever he lists ; and the 
child can determine the course of the little stream. Look again 
at the giant trees which stand in the forests of our land. Time 
was when the young saplings bent before every breath of air 
which fanned their leaves — when, perhaps, a bird which built 
its nest upon some slender bough, bent down that huge branch 
which now grows in such notched and gnarled curves. So is 
the heart of a child — soft and yielding, weak and susceptible ; 
and therefore are the first impressions so deep and lasting. A 
single event often determines the course of life. We read in 
ancient story of a certain child ; his father brought him to the 
altar, and bade him swear eternal hate to the enemies of his 
land. The impression made upon the child's heart was deep. 
The river of all his thoughts and actions flowed in the channel 
thus graved. The expression was as great as the impression 
was deep. The child grew, and when the victorious legions of 
Hannibal drove the hitherto invincible Eomans from every 
battle field, and at last destroyed them on the bloody plains of 
Cannae, they were but following out the expression of the im- 
pression made upon the heart of the young son of Hamilcar. 

The first true elements of Art which can claim anything like 
inspiration, are learned from Nature. Take children out into 
her great school. Set them to look at the landscape. The 
most of them are dull, blind scholars, but a few bright, young, 



140 



genial spirits are all eyes and ears. These eager young eyes 
and ears are drinking in draughts of inspiration which we know 
not of. The brilliant, various, yet harmonious colours, the 
beautiful forms of the objects, the glancing lights and quivering 
shadows on their path, the song of the birds, the sighing of the 
breezes, the roar of the cataracts, or the tinkling murmurings 
of some pebbly brook, enter into their souls, breathe new life 
into them, live with them — acquire meaning, relation, and 
reality. These rare children grow up and become reproducers 
of Nature — artists, poets, the makers of new creations, the 
beauties and realities of which others may see, and hear, and 
feel, but they only, having been so deeply impressed, can pro- 
perly express. 

One of such children was Pringle. He was a nurseling of 
Nature. Born in a district celebrated as the very cradle of 
Scottish song, he was not only born, but nursed and bred a 
poet — one of the most natural, and therefore one of the most 
loveable of poets. Learning from earliest childhood, at the 
knees of a pious mother, to look from Nature up to Nature's 
God, and to recognise Him in all His works as the Father of 
infinite love, and purity, and truth, he retained throughout life 
a singular natural purity and simplicity, not only of thought 
and feeling, but of purpose. Anything artificial or unnatural 
had no charms for him. When in school, at college, in cities, 
in society, he was for ever yearning to get away from the struggle 
and turmoil of life — away into the wilderness where Man is 
distant, and God is near, and there to live, and love, and work, 
and worship. The following brief extracts, communicated by 
an intimate friend and companion of his youth, reveal so clearly 
the growth and tendency of his mind, that I give them, rather 
than attempt anything like a biographical sketch. After having 
received a sound elementary education in the Village School of 
Moorbattle, and the Grammar School of Kelso, he was sent to 
the Edinburgh University in his seventeenth year. His friend 
says : — " My first impressions of his mind and heart were 
deepened by every opportunity I had during a long friendship 
and confidential intercourse with him. His warmth of affec- 
tion, his ingenuousness, and his integrity, were, at the very 



141 



commencement of our fellowship, as truly revealed to me in 
his sayings and doings, as if I had known him for years. There 
was such a reality in the beautiful morale of his nature, that 
conveyed to you at once the impression of his being worthy of 
confidence and love. When at college, he was of studious 
habits, and attended diligently to the duties of his different 
classes ; and although he did not make a brilliant figure, his 
appearance was altogether respectable, when examined by the 
Professor. He did not, however, although studious, extend as 
he might have done, his classical knowledge. His readings 
during the hours not engaged in the preparation of the lessons 
of the day, consisted chiefly in the belles-lettres of his mother 
tongue. He was much more conversant with English poetry 
and criticism at the time, than students of his standing gene- 
rally were ; and he had not been many months in town (Edin- 
burgh), before he assisted in organising a small weekly club, 
where his general attainments w T ere available, either in himself 
producing, or in criticising, an essay in prose or in verse, 
written by the members in turn. His habits were exceedingly 
correct, as his thoughts and feelings were most pure ; while, 
amid the trials of an academic life, his devotional bias lost 
little of its power. During the whole session, alternately with 
his companion, he conducted worship in his apartment, after 
the fashion of devout Scottish families ; thus reverently observ- 
ing the practice of his fathers. On Sundays, he generally at- 
tended public worship in the meeting-house of Dr. M'Crie, the 
well-known biographer of Knox and Melvil. The session 
closed, he returned, with an increased admiration and love, to 
the scene of his nativity. I never knew any one who had a 
more intense delight in looking at nature. He seemed to find 
a life and loveliness in every thing, — to have a capacity of sym- 
pathy with all the varieties of beauty and grandeur. Although 
lame, he had a passion for ascending hills. The top of Hou- 
nam-law was to him especially consecrated ground, from which 
he could command such prospects of the traditionary country, 
of the legends of which he was now acquiring rapidly the know- 
ledge. He reluctantly left the country for the succeeding term, 
during which his habits were but little changed. To the 



142 



country again returning, he made many a pilgrimage to classi- 
cal spots in Teviot Dale. One of these, to St. Mary's Loch, in 
which I accompanied him, formed the subject of a poem after- 
wards published in the Poetic Mirror, under the title of 6 The 
Autumnal Excursion.' " 

Upon leaving the University he was engaged for several years 
in the office of the well-known antiquarian writer, Mr. Thom- 
son, Deputy Eegistrar of the Public Eecords in Scotland. But 
the occupation was uncongenial to his tastes and habits. The 
same friend says: — "His employment, unless when it occa- 
sionally gratified his antiquarian taste, was most repugnant to 
the natural bias of his mind, and altogether alien from those 
studies and mental exercises in which he especially delighted. 
He had, however, an ardent and enthusiastic temperament ; and 
although often bodily exhaustion, after the daily labour of tran- 
scription, seemed to incapacitate him for every literary pur- 
suit and enjoyment, he would, after a little interval of repose, 
with all the freshness of early morn, commence his reading or 
writing in prose or verse ; and it was astonishing how the fruit 
would, from time to time, appear in the various knowledge 
and information he would cast into the circulation of 
every literary party. The character of his daily occupation 
for several years, — his passionate love of nature and rural 
scenery, which he could but seldom gratify, — the dreamy tend- 
ency of his fancy — the wanderings of his soul amid happier 
combinations of things — may account for those feelings of a 
sombre description to which, during this period, he was occa- 
sionally subject. The entire uncertainty of his future prospects, 
the difficulty of fixing on any plan of life, from his unprofes- 
sional status, the perils of a merely literary life, the difficulties 
under which others were labouring in whom he took a deep in- 
terest, all conspired to render more frequent the attacks of de- 
pression alluded to. Notwithstanding all this, his private letters 
at this period are never without tokens of great buoyancy of 
spirit ; and after melancholy details, some lively stroke of wit 
or playful humour would at once originate an entirely different 
train of emotions." 

For ten years he struggled on in Edinburgh, gaining no small 



143 



literary reputation. He was the first editor of the famous 
Blackwood's Magazine, but gave it up, as he was unable, or 
rather unwilling, to use his pen to convert a purely literary 
periodical into a vehicle of political satire and party animosity. 
During the last year of his residence in Edinburgh, he was 
united to the faithful companion who survived him, and of 
whom he wrote in one of his last letters, alluding to his uncer- 
tain and precarious position when he took such an important 
step, " Amid all my difficulties and harrassing toil since my 
marriage, I have never for a single moment had reason to 
repent of my decision." His own anxieties for the future thus 
increased, and the probability of his father's family being dis- 
persed by reverses of fortune, at length led him to form the 
resolution to embark his own fortunes, and those of his relatives, 
in the Government scheme of South African Colonization. Sir 
Walter Scott, and other kind and powerful friends, smoothed the 
way, and he and his party landed in this country in 1820, with 
the fairest prospects. After leading his party to, and settling 
them in, the district allotted to them, he returned to Cape 
Town (1822), where he was appointed Librarian. Immediately 
upon his settlement, he strove, as he had resolved before, to 
benefit the new country of his adoption by every means in his 
power. The Cape Town of 1822 was very different, socially 
and politically, from the Cape Town of the present day. Pringle 
wrote to his friend Pairbairn, inviting him to come out and 
assist in the noble work which he had in view. The invitation 
was at once and gladly accepted. In 1823 they opened an 
academy, and in the year following commenced a literary 
journal. They also undertook the literary management of 
another weekly newspaper, established by Mr. Greig. Things 
went on smoothly, if not prosperously, for a few months. But 
a storm was brewing. The Colony was at that time ruled by a 
Governor who was only intelligent enough to discover that 
two men had come into the Colony, and had commenced to 
teach their fellow- colonists to think and speak and act 
like free men, and no longer submit to be driven by brute 
force. Lord Charles Somerset saw the dawn of a brighter day 
for South Africa, and thought he could quench the spreading 



144 



light. To establish a free press, to educate the youth, and to 
elevate the tone of society generally, were heinous crimes in the 
eyes of this tyrannous Governor. After trying to intimidate 
and cajole the daring men who had inserted the lever which 
was to raise the dead weight from the Colony, he sought to crush 
them altogether. The publication of their paper was stopped, 
their acadamy was denounced as a " seminary of sedition," and 
they themselves branded as " demons of restless ambition.'' 
The old man eloquent, who for more than forty years after such 
futile attempts were made to crush him, wielded his vigorous 
pen in defence of the rights and privileges of free men, and 
fought all our battles, gaining for us such victories as that 
which crowned the anti-convict agitation, and the granting of a 
free Constitution, has the satisfaction of seeing and knowing 
that he has done such service to a new country as few Governors 
or other men are privileged to perform. 

Pringle, after an interview with Lord Somerset, which we must 
give in his own words, resigned his Government appointment. 
He says : — " Lord Charles summoned me to appear immediately 
before him at his audience-room in the Colonial Office. I found 
him with the Chief Justice, Sir John Truter, seated on his right 
hand, and the second number of our South African Journal lying 
open before him. There was a storm on his brow, and it burst 
forth at once upon me like a long-gathered south-easter from 
Table Mountain. ' So, Sir !' he began, 6 you are one of those 
who dare to insult me, and oppose my government !' And then 
he launched forth into a long tirade of abuse ; scolding, upbraid- 
ing, and taunting me, with all the domineering arrogance of 
mien and sneering insolence of expression of which he was so 
great a master, reproaching me above all for my ingratitude for 
his personal favours. "While he thus addressed me, in the most 
insulting style, I felt my frame tremble with indignation ; but I 
saw that the Chief Justice was placed there for a witness of my 
demeanour, and that my destruction was sealed if I gave way 
to my feelings, and was not wary in my words. I stood up, 
however, and confronted this most arrogant man with a look of 
disdain, under which his haughty eye instantly sank, and re- 
plied to him with a calmness of which I had not a few minutes 



145 



before thought myself capable. I told him that I was quite 
sensible of the position in which I stood — a very humble in- 
dividual before the representative of my sovereign ; but I also 
knew w T hat was due to myself as a British subject and a gentle- 
man, and that I would not submit to be rated in the style he 
had assumed by any man, whatever were his station or his rank. 
I repelled his charges of having acted unworthy of my character 
as a Government servant and a loyal subject ; — I defended my 
conduct in regard to the press and the character of our magazine, 
which he said was full of ' calumny and falsehood — I asserted 
my right to petition the King for the extension of the freedom 
of the press to the Colony : and I denied altogether the 'personal 
obligations' with which he upbraided me, having never asked 
nor received from him the slightest personal favour, unless the 
lands allotted to my party, and my own appointment to the 
Government Library, were considered such — though the latter 
was, in fact, a public duty assigned to me, in compliance with 
the recommendations of the Home Government. This situation, 
however, I now begged to resign, since I would not compromise 
my free agency for that or for any appointment his lordship 
could bestow." 

After a visit to the young settlement at Glen Lynden, 
where he had the satisfaction of finding that his object 
in emigrating had been fully realised as far as his father's 
family and other relatives were concerned, he returned to England 
and vainly sought redress for the wrongs and losses he had 
suffered at the hands of the Governor. He intended again to 
return to the Cape, but a great work was prepared for him, 
He was selected by the Anti- Slavery Committee as the most 
fitting person to act as their Secretary, and in that capacity he 
continued to labour for seven years with the utmost devotion 
and enthusiasm, until the objects of the Association w^ere gained 
by the extinction of slavery throughout the British dominions. 
On the very evening of the day that he had attended the last 
meeting of the Association, he ruptured a small blood-vessel, 
and thus commenced the fatal disease which carried him off 
shortly after his glorious work in the cause of humanity and 
freedom had been accomplished. He again desired, and was in 

L 



146 



fact advised for the sake of his health, to return immediately to 
South Africa ; but the disease sapped his strength too rapidly, 
and he died at Highgate, in the suburbs of London, on the 5th 
of December, 1834. His death is thus recorded by one of his 
biographers : — " I happened to be in Scotland when the attack 
came on, and thus did not see him until the last week of his 
life, but it was a rich consolation for me to find the state of 
mind in which he lay. His soul seemed quite detached from 
all earthly things, and quite unwilling to think of them. He 
acknowledged the wisdom, righteousness, and grace of the Lord 
in so chastising him ; and seemed happy to trace the various 
steps of that painful yet gracious process by which the Lord 
had humbled him. His strain was thanksgiving. Two nights 
before his death, though reduced to a ghastly skeleton, he de- 
sired to sing some verses of a psalm with me ; and on my pro- 
posing to substitute a brief exposition of the 108rd Psalm, as 
that we usually sing at our Communion, I shall never forget 
the affectingly sweet expression with which he assented. He 
spoke much of Christ as his only hope, and seemed to have a 
peculiar pleasure in whatever I said about His glorious righteous- 
ness ; and I do firmly believe that he fell asleep in the Lord. I 
held his hand as he expired, which he had held out to me, with 
the almost inaudible articulation of ' Farewell !' There were 
throbbings, and a little restlessness, but no struggles — he gently 
died." 

A simple uninteresting life this, you will perhaps say. 
No stirring events in it ; nothing grand or heroic announced, 
attempted, or performed. But read his African Sketches, prose 
and poetic ; read what great and good men have said of him 
and of his quiet, unostentatious, yet persevering labours and 
powerful influence, and you will learn that Thomas Pringle was 
one of the great revolutionists of South Africa — one of the 
emancipators of the slave. One of his biographers says of 
him : — " When reflecting upon the circumstances of Pringle's 
residence in South Africa, I cannot help being struck with what 
is commonly called the ' injustice of fortune' as regarded him. 
Whenever the emancipation of the coloured races is mentioned, 
names — glorious names in the history of civilization ! — present 



147 

themselves to the grateful memory ; but who recalls that hum- 
ble emigrant whose moral influence, spreading like an atmo- 
sphere throughout the Colony, prepared the minds of men for a 
revolution which, remote and comparatively unimportant as 
was the field of action, can be reckoned nothing less than sub- 
lime ? Pringle communicated a portion of his mind to our 
African Colony ; and not merely in the printed essays and 
moral struggles of the philanthropist was his advocacy of the 
eternal principles of nature and religion made manifest, but even 
the wild strains of his Border muse sent a thrill of generous feel- 
ing through many a cold and selfish heart. In his history, in 
fact, is exhibited the stealthy influence of literature, unseen in its 
action but felt more powerfully in its result than the fiercest 
war." And, reading his sketches and poems, we can under- 
stand the deep feelings and expressions of affectionate regret, 
as if for personal loss, that his death called forth. We ad- 
mire and extol the genius of writers whose works have lasted 
long after themselves ; but there are a few, very few dead authors, 
wdiom we have never seen or known in the flesh, for whom we 
feel a warm personal love and regard. Such^are, f^r instance, 
Goldsmith, Washington Irving, and Pringle, — three congenial 
spirits. We love not only their books, but out of the books 
learn to love the men. The pure, kind, unaffected, genial 
spirit infused into their writings, may not stir our souls like the 
trumpet notes of mightier magicians of the pen, but it sets our 
hearts aglow. These few men write, not so much as if they 
would dazzle and astonish, but would make men as good and 
happy as they were themselves. The loving and sympathetic 
biographer, from whom I have quoted before, says of the writings 
of Pringle : — " A singular and beautiful analogy may be traced 
between the moral and literary character of Thomas Pringle. 
Sometimes brilliant, sometimes striking, and always captiva- 
ting, but less brilliant than pure, less striking than useful, less 
captivating to the fancy than wholesome to the heart ; his works 
seem to have had for their end the aim of his life, to make men 
better and happier around him. Even among his miscellaneous 
poems, we look in vain for those elegant unsubstantialities which 
make up nine-tenths of the sum of modern poetry, compensating 



148 



by their prodigious number for the want of individual value. 
He was not one of those who haunt the sacred hill merely to 
chase sunbeams and butterflies. With him every line has its 
definite object — every picture its moral purpose." Eead his 
inimitable sketches of South African life and scenery, overflow- 
ing with love and admiration of all that is good and beautiful 
in each, kindling with indignation against cruelty and wrong, 
yearning to help to deliver, to educate, and to elevate the igno- 
rant, the debased, and oppressed ; read his poems, the reflex of 
his pure and gentle spirit, now reproducing with a power of 
word-painting, in which few have excelled him, some South 
African landscape or incident, then pouring out an impassioned 
burst of holy indignation against wrongs and oppression, or a 
wail of sorrowful regret for hopes and wishes unattained or 
cruelly destroyed, and you will accord the author a first place 
in your grateful love and esteem for what he has done for this 
country and for our literature. 

But the poem on which his fame most securely rests is " Afar 
in the Desert." One writer says of it : — " This is a poem which, 
once having read, it is difficult to forget. It lingers in the ear like 
one of those old melodies that are associated with ideas at once of 
sadness and of beauty. It harmonises with that species of de- 
pression which partakes not of discontent, and at the moments 
when we seek to shut out from us the external world, it comes 
in among our thoughts like something both kith and kin to 
them." Coleridge wrote of it to the author : — " Though at the 
time I first became acquainted with your 1 Afar in the Desert' 
so busy that I had not looked at any of the new books, I was 
taken so completely possession of, that for some days I did little 
else but read and recite your poem, now to this group and now 
to that, and since that time have either written or caused to be 
written at least half-a-dozen copies. I do not hesitate to de- 
clare it among the two or three most perfect lyrics in our lan- 
guage." It is a poem beyond criticism. It is thoroughly cha- 
racteristic of the author, — in fact, thoroughly characteristic and 
descriptive of the country in which it was written, and the 
retrospective regret, appealing in every line to the experience of 
every reader, has an almost fascinating influence. It is one of 



149 



those few perfect poems which are so real, so startling, and so 
powerful, that while reading them we sometimes fancy that the 
poet has been reading our most secret thoughts and aspirations. 
Let me, without any further criticism, read a portion of it to 
you, and if I can dismiss you with the thought that the exqui- 
site melody and meaning of the verses will linger on your ears 
and tempt you to help to make our South African poet more 
popular than he has hitherto been, I shall be satisfied : — 

AFAR IN THE DESERT. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 

When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 

And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past ; 

When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 

From the fond recollections of former years ; 

And shadows of things that have long since fled 

Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead : 

Bright visions of glory— that vanished too soon ; 

Day-dreams — that departed ere manhood's noon ; 

Attachments — by fate or by falsehood reft ; 

Companions of early days — lost or left ; 

And my Native Land — whose magical name 

Thrills to the heartl like electric flame ; 

The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; 

All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 

When the feelings were young and the world was new, 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; 

All — all now forsaken — forgotten— foregone ! 

And I — a lone exile remembered of none — 

My high aims abandoned, — my good acts undone, — 

Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, 

I fly to the Desert afar from man ! 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife- 
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, — 
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — 
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood and folly, 

L S 



150 



Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, 
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh — 
Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, 
Afar in the Desert alone to ride ! 
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, 
And to bound away with the eagle's speed, 
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand — 
The only law of the Desert Land ! 

****** 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 
Away — away — in the Wilderness vast, 
Where the White Man's foot hath never passed, 
And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan 
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan : 
A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
Which Man hath abandoned from famine and fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink : 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, 
As I sit apart by the Desert stone, 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, 
' A still small voice' comes through the wild 
(Like a Father consoling his fretful Child), 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, — 
Saying— Man is distant, but God is near J 



THE WOBUEN MASSACEE. 



[A TALE OF THE KAFIR WAR.] 

It was Christmas Eve of the year 1850. Not in the old 
country, where gladsome hearts close the shutters against the 
winter blasts without, and gathering with more than wonted 
affection round crackling hearths, with song and tale beguile 
the hours till the merry midnight chimes begin to ring in the 
bleak, cold, natal dawn, which warms and fills the souls of old 
and young with higher and holier joys than the queenliest day 
in spring. It was Christmas Eve in this our own southern land, 
and in a part of it where the glorious significance of the season 
was little known, and seldom, if ever, celebrated. A young 
man was slowly riding up the Lushington Valley, on the borders 
of British Kafir aria. 

Eeader, let me tell you, in parenthesis, that if you would 
look on a glorious and enchanting landscape, go and stand on 
what is called the Chumie Neck, at the head of that valley, on 
such an evening as that of which I write. Look east and west, 
north and south ; let your gaze be long and lingeringly with- 
drawn from one point and fixed on the other, and you will con- 
fess that such a panorama of loveliness and grandeur has not 
often opened on your eyes before, 

The youth rode on in a dreaming reverie. He let the reins drop 
and allowed the horse to pick his own way through the gorgeous 
carpet of wild mountain flowers which decked the long ridges 
sloping clown gradually on either side to the little stream along 
which the winding pathway ran. His thoughts -were solemn 
and sweet, for smiles of mingled gladness and regret stole over 
his face as he turned from side to side, and thoughtlessly 
whisked the graceful drooping belles with his whip from their 
tall and slender stems. An Africander by birth, and proud of 
the name, but long absent in the mother country, his thoughts 
reverted to all the hallowed associations awakened and 



152 



encouraged in that land at this season, and he felt sad as he 
thought of the Past and of the Present. But yet there was so 
much in the pleasures and prospects before him that his sadness 
was only of that kind which soothes and softens but never 
wounds the heart. His only companion was a young Hotten- 
tot achterryder, who, with all the liveliness of his race, had been 
entertaining his master during the earlier part of the day with 
miraculous tales of equestrian skill and endurance. But for the 
last few miles, de jonge baas had not deigned even to laugh at, 
much less to applaud the most extravagant and ludicrous sallies, 
and Booy gradually dropped to the rear, and voting his master 
"gek," he kept up a running conversation in broken English 
and Dutch — in which, of course, he had all the talk to himself 
— with his horse : " Maar Mostert, w r at makeer jou — jy is gek 
too nes de mass'r — jou cannot galloop nie he ! — no, des voor 
niet, jy lieg — jy is maar lui, you lazy beas\ — w T at you hang 
your ears dat way for ? — jys bek af, he ? — nee, nee, my ou kerel, 
des not off-saddle time nog nie" — and so on. 

Thus, the one silently dreaming, and the other chattering to 
his horse, master and servant at last reached the Neck at the 
head of the valley. Before them opened a wide and glorious 
landscape ; to the south and east, a far view over undulating 
hills and rich valleys stretching dimly towards the distant sea ; 
to the left, the grand Amatola range, a towering wall of rock 
and wood, with cataracts leaping from heights far above, and 
plunging in the deep Chumie basin beneath them. He turned 
his horse's head to the road he had come, and an involuntary 
exclamation of wonder and delight burst from his lips. The sun 
was sinking behind the Bedford hills, and westward and north- 
ward his eye roamed over a scene of surpassing beauty and 
grandeur — the Kat Kiver valley in the foreground, the mountain 
range of the same name beyond, and, still further, the towering 
crags of the Winterberg still gleaming in the sun. The golden 
haze of evening threw a veil of enchantment over the whole 
prospect, and the traveller gazed as if spell-bound. How long 
he would have continued in this attitude of rapt admiration it 
is hard to say, had not Booy rather gruffly accosted him : 
Ci Maar, mynheer, de horses can mos nie die gou'e zonlig drink 



153 



nie, en al lyk dit nes vuur dit can mos nie roast our steaks, en 
cook our tea — ons moet quick maak, as ons nog to-night wil 
wees by ou' Baas Arend zyn plaats," and lie seized his master's 
reins, and leading his horse, pointed to the steep path leading 
down the mountain. 

Ou Baas Arend's " plaats," which had, upon special request 
and for special services, been granted to him but a few months 
before in a tract of country lately occupied by military settlers, 
lay seemingly at their very feet ; but Booy knew well that it was 
dangerous to take the short cut through the forest after sun -set, 
and that by the more circuitous road they would take fully an 
hour to reach it. And it had got quite dark before they crossed 
the stream which, issuing from the mountain they had just 
descended, flowed past old Arend's homestead. A loud barking 
of dogs assailed their ears as soon as they reached the other 
bank. Booy, who had by this time come to the conclusion that 
his master was too " droomerig" to take care of himself, gal- 
lopped past him through the pack, slashing right and left with 
his horsewhip, and loudly shrieking and gesticulating to the 
servants to come and drive off the dogs and help him to off- 
saddle. The noise brought out old Arend, who stood in the 
doorway, shading the candle which he held in one hand with 
the other, and peering out into the darkness. 

" Here's de jonge baas, Ou baas," said Booy, introducing his 
charge, self convicted that, but for his protection, his master 
never would have reached his destination. 

Ou Baas no sooner recognized Booy's voice than he rushed 
out and nearly dragged the young man from his horse in the 
vehemence of his welcome. He was puzzled for a time how to 
address him. His stock of English was but scant, and by 
attempting to use it he only made his Dutch unintelligible. He 
was therefore not a little astonished and delighted when he 
heard his guest answering him in good plain Dutch. He put the 
candle up to his face, took a good stare at him, and exclaiming, 
" Maar, myn vaderland, das goed ! das goed !" he forced him 
into the house, shouting as he went, " Vrouw, kom hoor hier ; 
kom hoor hier dan toch !" 

The young stranger found himself suddenly pushed into a 



154 



large room full of people. He bad not expected such an assem- 
blage, and felt rather awkward for a moment. But Ou Baas and 
bis wife allowed him little time for apology. The latter, rush- 
ing up to him and gazing affectionately into his face, threw her 
arms round his neck and gave him a most vigorous kiss, which 
was returned with no less cordiality. Then, seizing him one 
by either arm, Ou Baas and his wife led their captive all round 
the room, introducing him to everyone as " de jonge mynheer — 
ou'e mynheer, zyn zoon" — who had just returned from Europe. 
The introduction was quite sufficient ; everyone seemed to un- 
derstand who " ou'e mynheer" was. The old and married men 
shook him warmly by the hand; the younger ones half rose 
from their seats and pulled an imaginary brim of a hat over 
their eyes by way of salutation ; the elderly ladies looked up at 
him as he passed in review, folded their hands over their laps, 
and exclaimed, " Ach, denk toch!" while the younger ones 
blushed and giggled, and, half turning their heads away, peered 
slyly at him over their shoulders. A laughing group of chil- 
dren, who had seemingly just been ordered off to bed, crowded 
into the doorway of an inner room to catch a sight of the 
new comer who had caused such a commotion. Inquiries 
and explanations on both sides now followed in quick suc- 
cession. To account for the large gathering of guests, Ou 
Baas asked if the jonge mynheer had forgotten that his birth- 
day was the day after Christmas, and explained further that the 
ooms, and tantes, and neefs, and niggies, had been induced, 
after much persuasion, to come — some as far as from Somerset 
and Cradock — to celebrate the event in his new home in Kafir- 
land. It had been a regular job, he continued, to coax them, 
for a month or two ago there had been rumours of disturbances, 
and of the outbreak of another war ; but he had convinced them 
that Sir Harry Smith had made the Kafirs swear peace on the 
white stick, and that the country was as secure as ever it had 
been. " But," concluded the old farmer, glancing slyly at some 
of his guests, if " you go and look round the voorhuis, and at 
their wagons drawn up at the side and at the back of the house, 
you will see that they have come as if equipped for a commando, 
instead of a peaceful family gathering." 



155 



On his side the young stranger explained that he had left 
home that morning to attend a picnic and a wedding party, 
which was to be given by a young military friend of his, who 
had settled in the neighbouring military village, and who next 

day was to be wedded to the daughter of old , the retired 

Government official who lived at the Yellowwoods, under the 
Chumie Fall. " To be sure, to be sure, wel zeker," said Ou 
Baas ; " don't you know that the bride's mother is my own bro- 
ther's wife's sister, and there he (my brother) and his wife sit, 
and they are going to the picnic and wedding too, and the old 
gentleman, the bride's father, has asked as many of us as like 
to go to be there too. And don't you remember," continued 

the old fellow, " that the bride is the sister of , eh ? what's 

her name ? Ah, you young schelm, you don't remember, eh ?" 
The " young schelm" laughed, but a slight blush betrayed the 
faithfulness of his memory. He vowed, however, that he had 
not seen the family since his return, and that he would not . 
know either bride or sister when he did see them ; for they 
must have grown out of his recollection. 

" You won't forget her again in a hurry — not the bride, but 
the sister," shouted Barend, jun., who had hitherto been 

tongue-tied. " She's I can tell you !" The blanks were 

filled up with a peculiar smack and a whistle, which, no 
doubt, in the young boer's opinion, were highly figurative and 
expressive of beauty ; but which failed to convey any definite 
meaning to the stranger, who now seemed anxious to change 
the conversation. 

Supper — a most substantial array and variety of dishes — was 
now brought in, and discussed with becoming gravity and in 
almost perfect silence. Eating his supper is, with the South 
African farmer, one of the most important duties of the day, 
and he seldom allows any other occupation, mental or physical, 
to distract his attention from the viands before him. The 
mouth can do but one thing at a time, and if you would eat, as 
you must eat to satisfy your .host, let the only duty of your 
tongue for a time be to assist the teeth. Supper over and the 
tables cleared, the numerous servants of the household and of 
the visitors crowded into the end of the room and half filled 



156 



the voorlmis beyond, and Ou Baas closed the day like a man to 
whom the coming one was the anniversary of his own best 
faith, and hope, and love. Immediately after, the men affection- 
ately bade good-night to the womankind and went out to the 
wagons, for old Arend's house, though pretty commodious, 
could not contain all his guests. A small room had been 
specially prepared for the young stranger, but he begged and in- 
sisted to be allowed to give it up to the females, and vowed, 
though he had not tried it, that there was nothing like sleeping 
in a wagon. Old Barend accordingly instructed his son to 
bring out a proper supply of karosses, and lighting a lantern, 
conducted his young friend to his own wagon. The scene at the 
side and back of the house was lively and picturesque in the . 
extreme. The drivers and leaders and other helps had kindled 
fires to cook their suppers, and were now sitting or reclining 
in careless ease round the bluring logs, recounting tales of 
adventure with man and beast in the wild country around. 
Loudest of the merry noisy crew was Booy, who, though young 
in years, took a pride in speaking of himself as the " old boy." 
A little apart from the rest sat a group of Kafirs — old Barend's 
servants — in dignified silence, contemptuously eyeing the crowd 
round the fire, and only now and then expressing, by some im- 
patient or significant gesture, that they but partially understood 
the drift of the conversation. 

The young stranger sat long on the voorkist of the wagon, 
watching the groups round the fire, and enjoying the balmy 
night breeze which came through the orange-trees in front of 
the house, laden with perfume. 

" "What is that ?" exclaimed Booy, suddenly pointing in the 
direction of the 'nTaba Kan Daela, the highest and furthest 
visible peak of the Amatola range. All looked in the direction, 
and saw a bright fire high up in the mountain. Presently a 
second shone out from a nearer peak, then a third, and a fourth, 
till the peaks of the whole range stood out clear against the 
starry sky. Conjectures, one more ridiculous and extravagant 
than the other, were started by the Hottentots. 

" Don't you know," said one of the Kafirs, rising and ap- 
proaching the group round the fire, " that the great chief has 



157 



been born, and that the Amakosa tells the white man on this 
night that there is peace in the land ? See, there is another lit 
on the peak above the first teacher's grave," he said, turning and 
pointing to the high crags on the mountain immediately behind 
the house, under which, it is said, the Kafirs buried Williams. 

The Hottentots, ever careless and thoughtless, soon forgot, if 
they at all understood, the meaning of the Kafir's words ; and, 
dropping off one by one, fell asleep round the fire where they 
sat. The young stranger still sat on the voorkist, looking out 
on the now solemn and silent scene. Not a sound reached his 
ear, save now and then the lowing of the cattle or the bleating 
of the sheep in the kraals beyond the house, as the howling 
laugh of the hyena came across the river. Suddenly he was 
startled by a loud, shrill call from the mountain. It had some- 
thing human, but to him perfectly unintelligible, in it. As it 
was repeated, he saw one dark form after another gliding noise- 
lessly past the embers of the fire beside the wagons, and 
vanishing in the wood behind. A momentary feeling of fear 
came over him, but he quickly banished all idea of danger, and 
creeping into the wagon, where young Barend had been snoring 
for an hour or two, he was soon fast asleep. 

Next morning, at an early hour, all was bustle and excite- 
ment to be off to the Yellowwoods. Two of the wagons were 
inspanned, and, after a cup of coffee, such of the women as in- 
tended to go to the picnic and wedding started. Old Barend, 
his young guest, and some of the men, were to follow imme- 
diately on horseback. But not a little wrath was he when he 
called to his Kafir servants, and not one of them answered or 
was to be found anywhere. His guest explained what he had 
seen during the night. " The lazy rascals!" said the good- 
natured master, who was accustomed to his work-people ; " I 
daresay they have gone off to some wedding or dance party, too. 
I never can be sure of keeping them a day. They go and come 
whenever they like, and eat more and work less than if I paid 
them nothing;" and quite satisfying his guests that their ab- 
sence was nothing unusual, they saddled their horses and rode 
off, leaving only his wife and a few old men and women on 
the "plaats." The scene of the picnic was one of the loveliest 



158 



and most romantic spots in the Clinmie basin. The old gentle- 
man who owned the Yellowwoods was a man of education and 
taste, and, upon leaving the service, came to settle in this 
wilderness of beauty, which, with little care and labour, he had 
converted into beautiful gardens and parks, in the centre of 
which stood his plain but commodious house. He was one of 
those few men who, though a stranger w T hen first he came into 
the country, and possessing ample means, took a liking to the 
colony and its people, soon made many friends, married into a 
Dutch family, and after doing good service in various military 
and civil appointments, preferred to bring up his children where 
they had been born, to returning to a land where he would now 
find few familiar faces. The old gentleman stood on his stoep, 
heartily welcoming all who came, and wishing them, and being 
wished in return, a doubly merry and hapiDy Christmas. His 
greeting to the young stranger, who had to introduce himself 
before he was recognised, was especially cordial. " My dear 
boy, how you have grown, and how changed you are. Just 
come back from the old country, eh ? Seen many sights and 
wondrous beauties of nature and art, but nothing to beat this. 
I am proud of the name of Englishman, and of the land where 
I was born ; but I am old and my children's fatherland and 
home is now mine. Come and see the girls — your young friend 
who warned us of your coming will be here immediately, and 
then there will be too much bustle to recognise anybody." So 
saying he drew him into the house, and though informed by the 
old English house-keeper, who was hurrying about attending to 
twenty things at a time, that the young ladies were adorning 
the bride, he impatiently exclaimed, " Fudge! what's the use 
of adornment or array at such a wedding, and in such a place ? 
6 Nature when unadorned,' &c- — Come here, girls, come here ; 

here's your old play-fellow using a nickname, at which 

the young man laughed and blushed. " You must know I want 
this wedding to be a perfectly natural and simple affair ; none 
of your artificial extravagance and nonsense : so I hit upon the 
plan of a Christmas pic-nic and a wedding all in one — brilliant 
idea, isn't it ? very ;" and so the old man rattled on in the most 
exuberant spirits. 



159 



The girls soon made their appearance, and their father's quo- 
tation regarding nature might have been applied more appro- 
priately to them than to the scene around. They were dressed 
in simple white, the bride only being distinguished from the 
rest by a wreath of orange blossoms fresh plucked from the 
large trees round the house. If the bride was beautiful, no less 
beautiful was the band of sisters which waited upon her, es- 
pecially — so thought our young friend — the one so energetically 
eulogised by young Barend the previous evening. Their beauty 
was not of that brilliant, dashing kind, which excites and courts 
admiration by all the trickeries of art, but lovely, graceful, un- 
affected, and simple. The girls, nurtured and educated with 
tender care, had a charm in their look and manners that was 
singularly captivating. No sooner did they know who the 
young stranger was — for there was no mutual recognition — than 
they greeted him with the affectionate warmth and sincerity of 
childhood, and even the one so forcibly pictured by young 
Barend, after one or two stiff though natural "misters," 
blushingly substituted the nickname of old, and the young man 
almost forgot the years which had intervened since he saw them 
last. 

The bridegroom, attended by a few military friends from the 
village and neighbouring forts, now galloped up to the door : 
and the proud father, leading out his daughter, headed the 
procession, which formed itself, to a bower deep in the woods, 
below the famous Fall, which came tumbling from the moun- 
tain through a cataract of foliage. Here the solemn and 
simple religious ceremony was performed by the Missionary 
from the station. The viands were spread on the sward, 
and the guests seated themselves as best they pleased, care- 
less of all form and ceremony. As the proud bridegroom led 
his blushing bride to the only reserved seat, which had been 
canopied richly with boughs and mountain flowers, the sisters 
sang : — 

Bright, auspicious be this morning, 

Which shall see our sister wed : 
Loving hands are now adorning, 

Sister dear, thy gentle head. 



IGO 



With the orange -wreath we crown thee, 

Well does it become thy brow ; 
Pure as are those buds we've known thee, 

Sweet as they our hopes are now. 

Come, we'll lead thee to another — 

To the one thou lovest best ; 
Henceforth to be hailed our brother, 

Go then, sister, and be blest. 

Joyously we bid thee leave us, 

Parting thus can ne'er give pain ; 
With those tears you'll not deceive us, 

Sunshine sparkles through that rain. 

No ! those tears fall not in sadness, 

But thy heart is full, we know ; 
Sympathetic tears of gladness 

Dim our eyes as thou dost go. 

Take her, brother, we have crowned her, 

And resign her now to you ; 
She is worthy, still we've found her 

Ever faithful, ever true. 

Be her guardian, we submit her 

Gladly to thy love and care ; 
For we could not find a fitter 

Husband for our sister fair. 

Well we know that she will lighten 

Sorrows which may dim thy life ; 
E'en adversity will brighten 

Near thy tried and gentle wife. 

Happy couple, now united, 

Joyous enter your new life ; 
Go, fulfil the vows you've plighted, 
And with courage 'gin the strife. 

Earth is full of care and sorrow, 

May these seldom cross your way, 
But may every future morrow, 

Be as bright as is this day. 

All was joy and congratulation. " A toast ! A toast !" was 
shouted and echoed around as the young stranger rose and 
filled his glass, and looked towards his friend and his bride. 



161 



" My dear fellow, I am not going to make a speech — speeches 
are out of place at a picnic -wedding — the best and most pleas- 
ing feast I ever was at. But here's a verse or two to add to 
your sister's— 

Come, drink to the bridegroom, and drink to his bride ; 
Come, drink to the pair who this day are allied ; 
As the wine in each wine-glass runs full to the brim, 
So the hopes in each heart rise for her and for him. 
Fill up to the brim, let it dance o'er the rim, 
Long life is the toast both for her and for him ! 

Here's joy to the husband, and joy to his wife ; 

May sadness but seldom o'ershadow their life ; 

May clouds, when they come, not bring storms of despair, 

But, like summer rain, freshen the blight of each care. 

Fill up to the brim, let it dance o'er the rim, 

Much joy is the toast both for her and for him. 

Here's health to the bridegroom, and health to his bride ; 
May sickness ne'er long on their threshold abide ; 
Sound health is far better than treasures untold, 
'Tis a boon of kind Heaven, above price of gold. 
Come, fill up the glass, and let the word pass — 
Here's health to the bridegroom, and health to his lass. 

Long life to the bridegroom, long life to his bride ; 
Not few be the years that shall over them glide ; 
May this day yet be writ on a silvery page, 
And a golden one, too, in a happy old age. 
Come, fill up the glass, and let the word pass — 
Long life to the bridegroom, long life to his bride ! 

As the last words were uttered, the bride started up with a 
look of agony and horror, and threw herself between the bride- 
groom and a tree at his back. Then, with a piercing cry, she 
sunk in his arms, as an assegai whizzed through the air and 
quivered in her breast. Her shrill cry of anguish woke a thou- 
sand frightful echoes. Swarthy forms started from behind the 
rocks and trees, and rushed in upon the guests, who were all 
unarmed, save the few officers who had fortunately not un- 
buckled their swords. The women ran shrieking towards the 
house. The men grappled with their savage assailants, and 

M 



162 



wresting their weapons from their hands, dealt back thrusts as 
deadly as they got. Blood mingled with the wine, and streamed 
over the food which had scarce been tasted. White man and 
black grasped in fatal embrace, rolled over the rocks, and were 
dashed into the foaming flood beneath. The bridegroom, who 
was one of the few who had retained his sword, stood over the 
prostrate body of his wife and fought like a maniac, cleaving 
down a foe at every blow. At last, a Kafir of gigantic stature, 
who seemed to be the leader of the savage band, rolled his 
blanket round his arm and hand, and, wrenching the sword as 
it was aimed at him from the officer's grasp, stabbed him to 
the heart with a yell of fiendish laughter. Seemingly satisfied 
with this vengeance and carnage, he sprang on to an overhang- 
ing rock, and called off such of his followers as still survived. 
The few unwounded guests would have followed unarmed, as 
they were, but waving them back with his blanket, he cried, 
" Back, back, back ; take care of your women. We never kill 
women ; this one was killed by mistake, but now her husband is 
dead and you may go. Fly from the land, for the white stick 
has been broken, and war is the word. Not a man will live 
who is found to-morrow !" And he vanished in the forest. 

The survivors lifted the corpses of the unhappy pair and of 
the mangled father, and carried them towards the house where 
they were met by a detachment of soldiers which had been sent 

out from Fort . After a hasty burial service under 

the yellowwood trees, the wounded and scared marriage guests 
were escorted past the burning ruins of the military villages, 
under which lay many a mangled corpse, to the fort further 
down the river. 

So ended a Christmas picnic and wedding party in Kafirland 
in the year 1850. 

The one sister of the bride died raving mad before the year 
was out ; and the young stranger, who toasted the bride and her 
husband, has never known a merry Christmas since, and sighs 
that his life is longer, much longer, than that which he wished 
Jais friends, 



TYPES AND PHASES OF COLONIAL LIFE 
AND CHARACTER. 



Allow me to begin with an anecdote. Some years ago, before 
the entente cordiale between France and England was as 
thoroughly established as it seems to be now, and when the two 
nations did not understand each other's language and manners 
as well as they do now, a worthy but untravelled son of old 
Albion was in Paris, enjoying his holiday. Ravenously hungry, 
but utterly unacquainted with the language of the country, he 
entered a coffee-house or restaurant, where his mother-tongue 
was not spoken. A portentously long and — if he could only 
have understood it — no doubt most inviting " bill of fare," was 
placed before him. He did not even attempt to pronounce any 
of the alluring but delusive names with which French cooks 
delight to test the tongue in a double way, but simply pointed 
to the first item on the list. A plate of soup was brought to 
him ; so far, good ; that was beginning dinner in a fair way, 
and without much trouble, thought he. He tasted the soup with 
the unpronounceable name, thought it very good, and finished 
the plateful. The empty plate was instantly whipped away by 
the smart w r aiter in attendance, who immediately returned for 
further orders. The diner-out pointed to the second item on 
the list. Another plate of soup was brought to him without 
delay. He looked rather astonished, but tasted the soup, and 
finding it, if possible, still better than the other, finished the 
second plateful. He pointed to the third name on the list. It 
was the waiter's turn to look astonished. But he was a French- 
man and his customer was an Englishman, so he said nothing, 
but brought a third plate of soup. The Englishman was fairly 
amazed now, and looked up helplessly at the waiter. What ! a 
M 2 



164 

dinner of three, or goodness knows how many more, courses of 
soup ! But what was he to do ? He dreaded the thought of 
going right down the list. So he began at the other end, and 
pointed to the last article on the list. The now equally per- 
plexed but still obedient waiter brought him a lot of tooth-picks ! 
In disgust and despair the Englishman threw down more money 
than the best dinner in Paris would have cost, and rushed out of 
the place. 

Now I very much fear that the various items on my bill of 
fare will seem to you to be but a repetition of one and the same 
thing under another name, and with a slightly different flavour. 
If so the fault is my own and lies not in my subject. For if 
any one w r ould but make a proper use of the materials at hand, 
I feel sure he might not only set out a very good feast, but in a 
measure satisfy the appetites of those who do him the honour 
to listen to the various articles which he in turn serves up and 
recommends. 

I pray you do not think that I am going to venture upon a 
physiological and pschycological disquisition on person and 
character. Such a theme, to be popularly treated, would require 
more science and research than I can bring to bear upon it. 
My object is a humbler one. Without in any case attempting 
to probe to the core, I purpose simply to present to you a few 
outline pictures, and will in most, if not all cases, leave you to 
fill in the details according to your liking or fancy. Taking, as 
a colonist, a deep and heartfelt interest in all that concerns 
my ow T n country, and believing that there is much to interest 
even the mere sojourner amongst us, I have chosen a colonial 
theme. The types and phases of life which I desire to present 
to you are those which any observer may trace for himself in 
the daily life around us in tow T n and country. 

And one word more by way of introduction. Do not for a 
moment think that I wish to be censorious, that I would 
wittingly or wilfully say anything that would give even the 
slightest offence to individuals. In every expression of the im- 
pression made upon my mind, I wish to remember that I am my- 
self one of those of whom I am speaking. If I speak ill of them, 
I am speaking ill of myself. If I judge, I am or can be judged. 



165 



The Dutch-Africander, as the oldest, the most distinctly- 
marked, and most widely-disseminated of the colonial European 
types, is deserving of the first and most elaborate notice. In 
observing this type, you will find a sameness and tameness of 
character, which are all the more remarkable when we remem- 
ber the various and in many cases conflicting elements out of 
which it was originally formed. For, though at the time of the 
English occupation of the Colony the whole population was 
Dutch-speaking, and even to the present day the bulk of the 
country population is such, the original settlers in the Colony 
were not all Dutch. Very far from it. More than half the old 
colonial family names are names unknown in Holland. How is 
this ? The history of the Colony will tell you. In early times, 
while the high officials were Dutch, many of the inferior ser- 
vants of the Company, and the majority of the so-called free 
burghers, were foreign adventurers recruited in Amsterdam, or 
cast adrift from foreign ships calling in Table Bay. The first 
great immigration into the Colony was an immigration of 
Frenchmen. Where in the Colony will you now find what may 
be called a French- Africander ? English, Dutch, French, Ger- 
man, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, as they were all, the old 
settlers gradually acquired one language and assumed one type 
of character. Why and how did they do so so completely, and 
in such a short time ? History will again aid us in the answer. 
The character and climate of a country, the habits and pursuits 
of the people, and the form of government under which they 
exist, will and do mould the character as much as, if not more 
than, education. The last was the prevailing and predominant 
influence here. The Dutch introduced the social and official 
formalism of the mother-country into their little dependency. 
The form of government was officious and exacting to the last 
degree. All the inhabitants lived and acted as if drilled to 
their duties, and with the fear of a court-martial ever before 
their eyes. As in a family so in a community. The menials, 
who have during a course of years been trained to obey and to 
act by rules prescribed for them, not framed by themselves, 
gradually cease to think independently, and lose individuality 
of character. So it was here. The community was at first, 

M 3 



166 



and for many years continued to be, little better than a house- 
hold of servitors, under the very strict control of one supreme 
master. And even when, at last, many almost severed their 
connection with the Government, and went into the wilderness, 
beyond the reach of a strict judicial, but injudicious, control of 
morals and manners, each head of a family — such family grow- 
ing into a clan — gave the tone of the old state of things to 
the circle gradually widening around him. 

Take an old-fashioned patriarchal boer of the present day. 
Go to his house, — converse with him and with his family and 
dependents, — and you will find this characteristic still strongly 
defined. He is all form and routine, and every person and 
thing about him seems more or less formal or monotonous. 
And if you have seen one of the class, you have seen all. 

You require no formal introduction. And here I would just 
remark that, as with the Dutch in Holland, so with the Dutch- 
Afrikanders — or those who have been Dutchified here — there 
are constant paradoxes cropping out. The Hollander is almost 
repulsively stiff and formal upon a first introduction, but 
gradually thaws upon better acquaintance. Formal in almost 
all things, the Dutch-Afrikander is hail-fellow-well-met with 
you at first sight ; but often freezes, or at least gets cold, after 
lengthy intercourse. You meet one of this class, for instance, 
on a country-road. He rides or drives up to you without hesi- 
tation, and greets you with the laconic salutation, " Dag!" He 
holds out his hand and you hold out yours. There is no hearty 
shake, only a cold clasp. He rides on beside ,you in silence for 
some time, eyeing you askance the while, and noting the points 
of your horse, the make of your clothes, saddle, saddle-bags, 
bridle, — everything belonging to you and your steed. At last 
he turns round upon you, and says, interrogatively, ' ' And ?" 
You wait for something to follow. But nothing does follow for 
a time. Seeing you don't or won't answer his short, somewhat 
vague interrogative interjection, he plunges at once in medias res. 

Who are you, if I may ask ?" And then follows a whole 
string of stereotype interrogations : " Where do you come from ? 
What do you do there ? Where are you going ? What are you 
going to do there ? Are you married ? If so, was your wife 



167 



not the daughter or the nichtje of So-and-so ? How many 
children have you got ? How is the veld in your part of the 
country ?" &c, &c. 

You come to his farm. You off-saddle cr outspan, as a 
matter of course, without invitation. You enter the voorhuis. 
At a bare little table, shoved into the corner, near the door, of 
a large ill-furnished room, sits the huisvrouiv, with her feet on a 
stove, a coffee or tea kettle on the table beside her, and the 
huis-apotheek, the Family Bible, and " Al Brakel," or some other 
old divine, on the window-ledge near her. You go up without 
introduction, hold out your hand, and say " Dag !" She holds 
out her hand, and says "Dag!" Your fingers touch, but do 
not close. With a waive of the hand in the direction of the 
rustbank — the sofa, or apology for it — at the other end of the 
room, she says " Zit !" You sit, and she looks at you with a 
vacant look, and you look at her, wondering what monosyllable 
will come next. You are not asked if you will take any re- 
freshment. A cup of coffee or tea is brought to you, as a 
matter of course and of form. You must conform to form, if 
you do not wish to give offence, and swallow the often nauseous 
mixture, whether you like it or not. You will have to drink 
one or two for every hour you stay, varied now and then, may- 
hap, with a soepie from your host. Your hostess, having looked 
at you long enough, will probably put you through your cate- 
chism again, as did her husband on the road ; and when she 
has exhausted that, she will think it a matter of duty to favour 
you with a minute and rambling account of her own bodily and 
mental ailments, and those of "haarman" her children, and 
grand- children. 

If your host is of patriarchal age, you will be astonished at 
the number of people who seem to have the run of the house, 
and to belong to it. They will come in by couples, to the 
number of a score and more — married men and women of thirty 
and upwards — young men, giants, of twenty years, and nearly 
as many stone weight — buxom damsels of sixteen, and a baker's 
dozen of youngsters, from fifteen years downwards. They will all 
come up to you — the maidens simpering and biting the corner 
of their aprons, the youngsters tugging most pertinaciously at 



168 



their forelocks — and hold out their hands straight and stiff like 
a toasting-fork. An introduction is considered unnecessary ; 
but if you wish to know who is who, you have only to ask 
boldly, as each comes up, " And who is this ?" and the names, 
in full, of all, from " my oldest son, who is married to Wilhel- 
mina Gertruida Adeleida, who was the daughter of So-and-so, 
who was the son of So-and-so, whom you perhaps know," to the 
youngest grandchild, pass in at your one ear and out at the 
other. 

Upon better acquaintance with the family to which I have 
taken the liberty to introduce you, you will find that the stiff, 
stupid mannerism, and other perhaps repellant traits of 
character, are surface-defects — that beneath these there are 
goodness and warmth of heart, and clearness of head, for which 
you would not at first sight, probably, give your new friends 
credit. You will be delighted with their genuine, if rather un- 
polished good-nature, forbearance, and hospitality. They will 
not force their hospitality upon you, and make you look upon 
it as a very great favour indeed. They will not pester you with 
the oft-repeated but hollow and vapid phrases of polite society : 
" Now, I do hope you are comfortable : I do hope you will 
make yourself at home," which often, we think, perhaps, are in- 
tended to convey the meaning hinted by the frankly sly lady who, 
being rather bored with the company of some formal visitors, 
said — " Now, do you make yourselves at home : I'm at 
home ; and I wish you all were !" Having thrown open 
their door to you, these honest, unsophisticated country-people 
consider you for the time being to be one of their numerous 
family ; and it will be your own fault if, after a few hours' in- 
tercourse, you cannot find yourself as much at home as any one 
of them. Conversing more freely with them, you will be 
amazed, mayhap, at their profound ignorance on many subjects, 
when you note their shrewd, sound, sterling good sense in re- 
gard to matters within their own sphere of observation. You 
will find that they have a most unbounded and almost ludicrous 
reverence for the Law and the Gospel, if I may be allowed so 
to express myself. The "juts' on circuit, or the magmtrcM of 
the district, as the representative of the law, and the prcdikant, 



169 



as the representative of the Gospel, are, in their eyes, immacu- 
late beings. There is no appeal against their most trivial 
dicta to conscience and common-sense. " The juts or the 
predikant said so," fore-closes all thought or argument. You 
will find them ready to believe almost anything you choose to 
tell them in which they are not personally interested, and which 
does not clash with any previous dictum of the afore-mentioned 
authorities, but slow to act upon suggestions touching the im- 
provement of their farms or anything upon them. They are 
greedy for news, and most patient listeners ; but as soon as 
they have heard what can be said or read to them, they forget 
all that does not immediately concern themselves, and relapse 
into the old, dull, formal routine. Marked characteristics are 
their insusceptibility and unexcitability. They listen well, but 
learn indifferently. They take in much, but retain little. They 
are not easily roused, excited, or astonished by the recital of 
deeds of daring, or of the wonders of science and art. 

But, notwithstanding their seemingly cold, formal, stolid, if 
not stupid deportment when among those who are not of their 
class, they have a lively, cheerful disposition, manifesting itself 
on the slightest provocation in rough, boisterous sport and 
frolic, with a supreme love for practical joking. Only they 
are often solemn, silent, and reserved when they ought to be 
gay, gallant, merry, light-hearted, and talkative ; and unex- 
pectedly mirthful and jocular when a laugh or a joke seems 
altogether out of place. A young boer going a-courting is often 
as solemn, silent, and sedate as a mute at a funeral. Having 
long cast sheep's-eyes at a blooming young damsel of fifteen in 
church, he at last musters up courage to go a-courting. And 
this is the way he sets about it. He picks out the most fiery 
young colt from his father's stud — one very fond of prancing 
and capering about. He rides it to the dorp" and buys a new 
saddle and bridle and a smart saddle-cloth — paying particular 
attention to this last article. It must be very gay and 
attractive. I have seen the gaudiest of hearth-rugs bought for 
the occasion, and ornamented with huge tassels at the corners, 
still further to increase its bewitching influence. Having 
arrayed himself in gorgeous attire — and it is sometimes very 



170 



gorgeous — the young boer rides twenty or thirty miles to the 
farm where dwells the fair object of his affections. Eeaching 
it, he off-saddles and enters the voorhuis. The young lady for 
whom the visit has been intended, her parents, and her brothers 
and sisters, have caught a glimpse of the saddle-cloth and 
tassels, and all know what that means. The bashful young 
wooer goes round with a guilty look, holding out a trembling 
hand, and saying, " Dag, dag, dag!" all round with a tremulous 
voice. The maiden of his choice, mayhap, silently hands him 
a cup of tea or coffee. That is a hopeful sign. But it is all : 
she does not vouchsafe him a look or a word. She resumes her 
seat, folds her hands over her lap, and, with eyes downcast, and 
intently studying the pattern of her apron, demurely listens 
while papa pesters the young fellow with questions about the 
rust in the crops, the horse-sickness, the lung-sickness, and the 
geelziekte, and while mamma annoys him still more with 
inquiries about and remedies for the " zinkens" of his mother, 
and the " kinkJwest" of his elder brother's younger child. After 
an hour's talk of this kind, and without a word addressed to 
his inamorata, he rises tremblingly, holds out his hand, and says, 
"Dag, dag, dag!" all round again, and rides, home, confident 
that he has passed the Eubicon, and that his suit is prospering. 
He repeats his visits — all passing off in the same way — two or 
three times a week, for a month or six weeks. He meets his 
lady-love at the " Katechisatie ;" and week after week he and 
she keep up a silent telegraphic communication with their eyes, 
instead of attending to their vrageboekje, and their psalmen and 
gezangen: but hold no oral discourse. The time of aanneming 
approaches. Both are passed as fit candidates for the church 
and — for matrimony. As soon as the dread ordeal is passed 
the two manage to meet round the corner of the church. 
" Well, what do you think?" says the smitten swain. " And 
what do you think ?" says the fair lady. "Well, I've got so 
many sheep; how many have you?" The damsel has the 
number at her fingers' ends. " I think that will do," says the 
lover. " I think it will," she replies. The courtship is at an 
end : they go home and tell their parents, — the banns are 
published, and they are man and wife after three weeks, neither 



171 



having uttered more than a dozen words to the other during the 
time of their courtship ! 

They have a keen appreciation, if not of humour, at least 
of that which is ludicrous or grotesque. Their modes of 
expression are often, if not witty, very droll, and provocative 
of laughter. Let me give you one or two specimens of their 
betrayal of their own ignorance in a very quaint way. Shortly 
after the railway was opened to Eerste Eiver, I was in a return 
train from that place to Cape Town. An old farmer, evidently 
from the far interior, got into the carriage in which I was. As 
soon as the train began moving, he clutched the seat on each 
side of him with both hands, and looked constantly and nervously 
out of one window and the other. I spoke to him in Dutch. 
No answer. I tried English with the same result. He heeded 
me not, but kept bobbing round from one window to the other. 
The train approached the sand-hillocks near the Durban station, 
through and over which my friend had no doubt, in old days, 
often toiled with his wagon and oxen, and given his cattle 
labouring through the sand a rest and blow at every hundred 
yards. As the train neared the station, the engine slowed, 
and gave the usual shrill warning whistle. The old boer jumped 
right off his seat, and shouted out, " Heh ! blaas jy now, as jy 
door de dik zand kom ?" (" Ha ! do you blow now, when you 
get to the thick sand ?") With a shout of laughter, I asked him 
if he thought the engine was a live animal ? " Why, of course 
it is," he said, " and what a long breath it has got 1" 

About thirteen months ago, I ventured to give a short series 
of lectures on popular subjects, in a remote country village, in 
colloquial Cape Dutch. My audience consisted for the most 
part of boers from the district. One evening I tried to explain 
to them, in the simplest way I could, some of the grand funda- 
mental truths of astronomy. I was of course heretical enough 
to try and upset their favourite whim and belief that the earth 
and sea are as flat as Table Mountain, and that if you only 
travelled far enough, you would tumble over the edge. The 
next morning, while riding in the country, an old farmer who 
had been present the previous evening, met me, and after the 
usual salutations and inquiries about " allemaal t'huis," he said, 



172 



" Well, Sir, now I believe, after what you said last night, that 
the earth is round. But you told us, besides, that it turns 
upon its own axis" (axis and axle in Dutch are expressed by the 
same word); ' ' that I can't and won't believe." " "Why ?" I 
ventured to ask. " Because," said he — referring me to the axles 
of his wagon, and the tar-pot hanging between the wheels — 
" Because I should first like to see the tar-brush with which they 
grease that axle L" I was of course completely floored. The 
sly old fellow gave his 4 'hot" and "haarvoor" oxen a smart 
cut with the whip, and as the cattle broke into a trot, looked 
round triumphantly at me from the voor-kist, and said, authori- 
tatively, "No, Sir, the earth don't turn round as fast as the 
wheels of my wagon." 

It is a singular fact that the old Dutch- Africander, born and 
brought up in a country with such fine scenery, should show so 
little appreciation of the beauties of nature, still less of those of 
art. I should think that it would be almost impossible for any 
man or woman to live for any time under the shadow of the 
grand old mountain, rising like a fortress of the gods behind us, 
and watch the lights and shadows which sun and cloud throw 
morning, noon, and evening athwart its buttresses and battle- 
ments, without feeling his spirit kindled in him. But if you 
were to wax enthusiastic about the beauty and grandeur of 
Table Valley and Mountain in the presence of an old-fashioned 
resident of this city, he would likely open his eyes wide, and 
wonder why you made all that fuss about nothing but an old 
mountain of barren rock. There was nothing in the old country 
in the way of scenery to excite enthusiasm in the minds of the 
first Dutch settlers. Land, wood, and water were in their eyes 
only beautiful when they could be turned to practical account. 
Frowning precipices and beetling crags are out of place in a 
Dutch landscape. In Holland there is not a rock or stone of a 
ton weight. The great Dutch poet, Bilderdyk's, idea of Eden 
was a dead flat, intersected almost at right angles by rivers and 
canals. The Dutch- Africander boer will think you a dreamer 
for praising mountain, rock, and wood, unless in their neigh- 
bourhood there is good veld for his cattle to graze, and a good 
fountain at which to drink. I once saw this practical turn of 



173 



mind vividly illustrated in the case of a very intelligent farmer 
with whom I was ascending the now celebrated Katberg Koad, 
perhaps the most beautiful and picturesque mountain pass in 
the Colony. We came to a gorge half-way up the mountain, 
where a bridge was thrown across the chasm. Looking down 
the one parapet of the bridge, you saw a very cataract of trees 
streaming down the almost perpendicular sides of the gorge, to 
the foot of the mountain. Looking up from the other parapet, 
you had in the foreground a cascade tumbling from shelf to 
shelf, and on each side of the mountain, rocks piled upon rocks, 
a thousand feet overhead, and above them great trees, and 
shrubs, and flowers of every hue — veritable castles in the air, 
with hanging terraces and gardens. I begged my companion to 
stop a minute or two, to admire the scene. " What's the use of 
it all ? There's no outspan place," he said, riding on without 
a glance either to the left or to the right. 

Is there such a thing — or rather such a being — as the English- 
Africander in the Western Province ? I'm afraid the name has 
an ill savour in the nostrils of young Cape Town. There are 
Anglicised Africanders in abundance, but thorough-going, good 
representative English- Africanders, I fear very few. There are 
those Englishmen who deign to do us the favour to come and 
live amongst us, who affect a supercilious contempt for every- 
thing colonial, who assume a haughty air and insolent bearing, 
who are always talking of home, and their great friends there ; 
who, when they have sucked what they can out of the colonial 
orange, throw the peel and pulp away, go home, and speak or 
write libellous things about the colony and the colonists. They 
are a contemptible set, not deserving of further notice as types 
of colonial life. But there are born colonists, who, forsooth, 
choose to imitate these wretched models. Though born and 
bred in this land, you hear them talking loudly, and not very 
learnedly about home — how sick they are of the colony, how 
they wish they could only get into a more congenial sphere. 
Let them go and find it if they can — we want them not here. 

If you want the true type of the English- Africander, you 
must go to the Frontier, to the settler of 1820. He is a repre- 
sentative man in the Colony. You have not been an hour in his 



174 



company before he will address you in something like the fol- 
lowing terms : — " I'm a British settler — a British settler of 
1820, Sir, and I ain't ashamed of the fact neither. I came here 
poor and penniless, and look at me now, Sir ! I've got a good 
farm (or a good store, as the case may be), my sons are well 
settled, my daughters are well married, and all are prospering, 
in spite of those rascally thieving Kafirs. I gave up the old 
country, and came to this Colony to live and die here, Sir, and 
I mean to do it as becomes a British settler, Sir !" John Bull 
is an eminently dogged, determined, and pugnacious animal, 
and the British settler of 1820 is the very beau ideal of what 
John Bull is, if he ought not to be, in these respects. He was 
almost stranded on a bleak and inhospitable shore, but on that 
shore he determined to do or die. He set manfully to work. 
He met with many obstacles and difficulties. He had to hold 
the plough in one hand, and the rifle or the sword in the other. 
He has still to do so. But he did it and does it. He is rather 
given to bluster, but not without cause, and if you don't believe 
his word, he is ready to give you a taste of his lead or steel. 
He has identified himself with the Colony, and claims it as his 
inheritance. And the best way, perhaps, in which he has done 
so is in inter-marrying his sons or his daughters with those he 
found in the country before him. It strikes me that about the 
very best type of colonial life which we can find is the Anglo- 
Dutch Africander, the descendant of a Dutch father or mother, 
and an English mother or father. Dutch conservatism, and 
English colonial enterprise and progressiveness, unite in him in 
the formation of a type of character which, purged of a few 
defects, will be, or ought to be, the standard of colonial life. 



HOW TO ENJOY CHEISTMAS DAY IN 
CAPE TOWN. 



" A merry Christmas" to you, kind reader, and, if you do not 
object, we'll wish you " a Happy New Year" too, next week. 
But we fear there are some who will say that it is simply 
impossible to pass either the one or the other in Cape Town with 
any degree of hilarity. In fact, say they, we go into doleful 
dumps, and never are less merry and less happy than just at 
this very season, when you would mock us with the idea that it 
is possible to be merry and to be happy, even in South Africa. 
Softly, good friend, we know 'that you are home-sick ; that you 
will bethinking, this evening, " Ah, if I were but at home, 
what a pleasure it would be to look forward to the holiday on 
Monday." We respect your feelings ; but pray do not let the 
longing for impossibilities interfere with the pleasures which 
you can enjoy even here. We would humbly suggest to you, 
in spite of your dumps and dolorous complaints, one or two of 
the many ways in which you may make your holiday pleasant, 
if not profitable. 

First, then, we would remind you that Christmas Day is 
about the longest day in the year in Cape Town ; whereas it is 
about the shortest in the old country. There, that is an 
advantage, surely. You have no long evening here, it is true, 
as you had there; but then you have a very long morning. 
Therefore you need not — nay, you must not — lie in bed as you 
once did, till the sickly sun has vainly tried to melt the frost- 
pictures from your bed-room window. You must be up with 
the lark to greet the sun, which shines here twice as long on 
your South African Christmas Day as he did when you learnt 
to skate, or drive a sledge. You must begin much of your 



176 



pleasure on that clay at an hour when your cousins at home 
have just retired after the merry meeting and festivities of 
Christmas -Eve. While they are lying down, wrapped in triple 
and quadruple folds of thickest wool, cast away from you the 
thin cotton sheet, which was a burden to you, and awake to the 
consciousness that it is as hot as if you had made your bed 
beside a blazing yule-log the evening before. You will require 
no call or stimulant to rouse you up. The heat, the buzz and 
the bite of the musquitos — villainous little Christmas guests, 
we must admit — will drive you out of bed. Open your shutters : 
look out ; sniff up the cool, almost cold morning air ; and see, 
there is the promise of a more glorious Christmas Day than 
your sleeping cousins at home can dream of. 

Take your matutinal cup of coffee — a rich, rare, refreshing, 
and withal strengthening draught, whether in summer or winter 
— and go down to the beach. Strip, and take a plunge into the 
cool waters of the Bay. Now you are ready to begin the plea- 
sure-making of the day. If you are wise, go down to the Central 
Jetty, take a boat, and pull out into the Bay, beyond the 
shipping. There rest on your oars, and look around. The sun 
is not up yet. Through the dewy haze which rests on sea and 
land you see, as in a vapour- dimmed mirror, the skimmer of 
dawn which will soon evoke form and colour from rock and 
cloud, from tree and wave, — all now looming out, now losing 
themselves in the skirts of retreating night. 

There, the dawn is breaking ! See, in the very zenith of 
heaven, whence the Southern Cross has but just fled, there are 
streaks of palest gold coming and going, like faint and fitful 
reflections of distant, unseen beacons — then amber shafts of 
light, then saffron-coloured balls of fire shoot across and gleam 
upon the nearer and lower clouds, till the whole Eastern arc 
glows with a rosy hue. The distant mountain-tops burn through 
the shrouds which wrapped their highest crags. And now the 
sun comes rushing up the sky, not slowly and sluggishly, and 
blurred with mist and fog, as in Northern latitudes, but suddenly 
and resplendently ; and, like the effulgent shield of Him whose 
birth you commemorate this day, scatters darkness, and flings 
brightest beams of light over all the earth. 



177 



Eest on your oars yet awhile, and drink in a full draught of 
pleasure as you gaze upon the glorious landscape unveiling 
itself before you. The topmost battlements of the stupendous 
wall of rock, which rises almost abrupt from the Bay, are bathed 
in purest light ; while the city below is still enveloped in shade 
and mist. But the kindling rays slant lower and lower, the 
vapours are lifted and exhaled, and soon the sheen of morning 
is on mountain, bay, and city. If you have any reverent and 
religious feelings, the scene and the day will prompt you, as you 
slowly paddle shoreward over the gleaming waters, to burst out 
with such snatches of praise and adoration as your mother 
taught you in youth from the Book of Psalms of the sweet 
singer of Israel. 

You might spend your whole Christmas Day on the Bay, 
looking at, studying the effects of sunrise, noontide-glare, and 
sunset upon the monarch-mountain before you. Nowhere else 
do the changing lights and shades of the morning and evening 
produce such marvellous effects upon what, at noon, seems but 
a blank, bare wall of rock. Look now at the effects of the 
morning beams upon the town and its surroundings. From the 
left, the Devil's Peak throws its tall shadow right across the 
valley in which the city is awaking from sleep — the ragged out- 
line of the summit clearly defined against the shoulders of the 
lion crouching at the seaward gate. From his scarred head the 
silver trees, stirred by the gentle breeze, stream down, glistening 
like a frosty mane, to the dark oaks and pines beneath. In the 
centre, out of the broad belt of forest at its base, rises the giant 
fortress of Table Mountain, with outworks, bulwark, buttresses, 
and battlements of Titanic build, standing out in bold relief, 
and deep seams or yawning chasms, the broken breaches of 
centuries of storm, gaping in its sides. Huge and fantastic 
shapes — shadows of jutting rock or overhanging cloud, or of 
mists still lurking in the cavernous clefts where the sun has not 
penetrated — flit hither and thither along the precipitous front. 
As you watch these shadows changing, you almost fancy that 
the solid masonry of the mountain itself is undergoing change, 
or feel inclined to believe the legend that the sons of Earth, the 
Titan race who made war with the gods of Olympus, and, 

N 



178 



flying southward from the bolts of Jove, and here taking a last 
and desperate stand, threw up this mighty wall on the verge of 
the southern seas, are repairing their stupendous citadel, and 
preparing for a fresh assault from the advancing hosts of war. 
Or has Thetis, goddess of the sea, with her nymphs, come with 
Aurora, and, leaving her native element, is she floating in 
mid-air, and pityingly and remorsefully throwing a mantle of 
loveliness over the stark, stern, adamantine brow of the giant 
Adamastor, who, for love of her, as w T ell as for impious war 
against high Olympus, was changed by the avenging gods into 
yon huge pile of rugged rock ? 

But mythological legends won't fill an empty stomach : so — 
pull ashore, and to breakfast, or rather to take only a light 
morsel or two of food, merely to break your fast, and prepare 
you for the walk or drive to the sylvan retreat, whither have 
been dispatched the well-filled picnic baskets. Where are you 
going ? There are early trains ready to start for Eondebosch, 
Claremont, and Wynberg. If you go in that direction, you are 
sure to fall in with some party to which you have been invited — 
or wiiere you will be as welcome as if you had been — picnicing 
in some verdant spot beside a lily-lipped fountain in the frisky 
dells behind Newlands or the Wynberg Hill. Or starting in a 
cart from Bathfelder's and driving over the Neck, you will find 
your party making the wild, romantic, and too seldom-visited 
glens about Hout's Bay ring with laughter and song. There is 
another train ready to start for the shady oaks of Stellenbosch ; 
for the rose-gardens and vineyards of the Paarl ; and the 
orchards and orange-groves of Wellington. Will you go out 
with it, and make Merry Christmas with the ooms, tantes, neefs, 
and nichtjes at one or other of these places ? Be sure, if you do, 
that you will be welcome, — and don't take anything with you, 
for you'll find more than enough to eat and to drink. There 
are other parties going to breakfast under the trees below the 
Bound-House, or on the Camp's Bay beach, and then to walk 
round the base of the Twelve Apostles, and, joining their friends 
at Hout's Bay, drive through Constantia to Wynberg, in time 
to catch the last train. Will you join one of these ? Then the 
Green-Point and Sea-Point folks expect half Cape Town to 



179 



come out by the tram-cars, and make the Kelder, or the wild, 
fantastic rocks strewn all the way from it along the shore, and 
far up the Lion's Shoulder, echo with joyous shouts of boys, the 
silvery laugh of girls, and the cheery chatter of children. 

Or have you resolved — gratefully and devoutly remembering 
the sacred origin of the holiday — to keep nearer Cape Town, to 
stroll about the gardens and the woods behind the city, to take 
a peep into the Library and Museum, and then to go to church, 
and there to join in psalms and hymns of adoration and thanks- 
giving ? Who will dare to ridicule the pious resolution to 
worship your Creator, and commemorate the birth of the 
Prince of Peace, in His house of prayer, before you spend the 
rest of the day in the glorious temple of Nature ? You will 
have plenty of time, after church, to go up and take tiffin with 
one or other of the many parties you will find making holiday in 
Breda's Forest, Verlaten Bosch, and other favourite haunts of 
Cape Town pleasure- seekers. There will be plenty of time after 
dinner for Derde Manetje, and other good old South African 
frolicsome picnic games, in the enjoyment of which the oldest 
will grow young again, while watching the skill and agility of 
the youngest. We hope no fashionable fops and flirts will think 
of introducing Croquet, and other kindred abominable innova- 
tions, on such a day and such a scene. 

Then, as the sun dips towards the West, those who are stout 
of limb, and not wearied out by all the romping and racing of 
the day, will resolve to finish off the out-door pleasures of the 
day with a walk round the Kloof. Watch, now, as you ascend 
the Kloof road, how the mountain, which a few hours ago seemed, 
as you caught glimpses of it through the trees under which you 
were dining, to be but one mighty wall of rock, reflecting back 
the noon-day glare from a colourless and unbroken surface, is 
now being hewn out again into new shapes, which sunset and 
shade are clothing with the culminating beauty and grandeur 
which precede the death of day, as of all that is good and 
great. The western sky is all aflame. The Lion's Head, which 
lifted its topmost pinnacles like pillars of glittering spar, and 
waved its banners of silver to greet the morning beams, now 
rises, a huge dark pyramid against a golden sky, and casts a 
n 2 



180 



sombre shade over the city beneath, where sunset never can be 
seen to advantage. Through the gap towards which you are 
making, shoot arrows of gold, which, slanting from the long, 
level, battlemented top of Table Mountain, strike against the 
ragged rocks of the storm-torn Devil's Peak, with rich, red 
glows and splintering on its crags, fly like fragments of fire-bolts 
into the flaming clouds above. You reach the Neck, and then 
stand and gaze landward and seaward in wondering rapture and 
delight. We will not, because we cannot, describe the scene for 
you. Go and enjoy it for yourself, and confess that a walk 
down the top of the Kloof on such an evening as we hope 
Monday will bring us, is " a joy for ever," to be felt, not to be 
described. The young moon lights your way down the 
picturesque pass to the shore ; and thence to Sea-Point, the 
grand monotone of the sea mingles with the melody and music 
which will gush out of your gladdened, grateful heart. 



A DAY'S TEAVEL ON THE FEONTIEE. 



I'll never forget the day I left Graham's Town. It was 
beyond parallel the last that ever a poor traveller, who was 
forced to move on, could choose to try the fierce heat of a South 
African sun. You will remember reading in the frontier papers, 
towards the close of last year, how crops and every green thing 
were scorched up and shrivelled in one day ; it was on that day 
we started. The sun had scarcely risen when there was a heat 
in the air which made the eating of breakfast a work rather of 
necessity than pleasure. There was not a speck on the sky, 
and not a breath of wind. By the time we had got to the top 
of the low ridge of hills beyond the Burying Ground and the 
Native Locations, our horses were flecked with foam ; and 
though my sole occupation was to sit in an open cart, the 
occasional exercise of stretching out my hands and holding on 
necessitated the application of a handkerchief to the forehead 
to wipe off the beads of perspiration . 

"When, however, the traveller who ascends it for the first time, 
gets to the top of Botha's Hill, he instantly forgets the desagremens 
of colonial life. He must indeed be perfectly callous and indifferent 
to the beauties of nature, if he can gaze unmoved upon the wide 
prospect which opens up before him. The eye at one rapid 
glance takes in the whole glorious landscape, and then fixes 
itself in turn upon the prominent individual features of the 
magnificent panorama. Immediately in the foreground the 
country, stretching towards the Fish Eiver, in a series of low 
round ridges, is densely wooded. The spectator overlooks a sea 
of foliage, under which treacherous covert hordes of Kafirs used 
to lurk in former times, and, issuing thence more than once, 
even ventured an attack on Graham's Town. Towards the 
north these ridges become gradually higher, stretching away in 

N 3 



182 



the hazy distance towards Somerset and Cradock. Eight in 
front of him, seemingly but a few miles off, but in reality full 
sixty away, with the Koonap, Blinkwater, and Waterkloof hills 
between, rises the Katberg range ; and behind them towers the 
huge Winterberg, with a belt of thunderclouds round its crags, 
and its stupendous massive peaks standing out above these, 
like castles in the air. Travelling eastward, the eye rests upon 
Gaika's Kop, rearing its lofty point high above the Elandsberg, 
on w T hich it seems to rest — Ossa piled on Pelion. In solitary 
grandeur it stands, dividing the Katberg range from the Amatola, 
which stretch far away into Kafirland. Conspicuous from its 
form and height, though full a hundred miles off, stands N'Taba 
Kandoda (the Man Mountain), and thence the eye travels onward 
to the haze which rests over the sea at East London, and, inland, 
towards the banks of the Kei. The view embraces the whole 
of British Kaffraria and most of the frontier districts. It is 
one which even the experienced traveller will not soon forget. 

But, let us descend to the toll at the foot of the hill, where 
the road to King "William's Town branches off from that to Fort 
Beaufort. We pay our toll and take refuge, for a short time, 
in the little canteen near it from the heat. Here we find a 
young gentleman with nothing on but shirt, drawers, and top- 
boots, stretched on the sofa, alternately wiping his face and 
fanning himself with his moist pocket-handkerchief, and sipping 
brandy and soda-water. The friend who is with me happens 
to know him, and asks where his road-party is working ? " 0, 
bother ! what do I know or care ; sleeping under the trees 
somewhere, I suppose; and you may depend upon it, that if a 
nigger can't take his nap without looking about for a cool spot, 
it must be hot indeed !" The most exacting member of Parlia- 
ment would excuse the inspector's deshabille and laziness on 
such a day. Our horses, having enjoyed their roll in the dust, 
are put into the cart, and we take to the road again, from which 
the glare of the sun strikes up in our faces with parching power. 
A drive of two or three miles brings us to the head of the Queen's 
road, one of Bain's first and finest efforts in the Eastern Pro- 
vince. For miles it winds down the sides of the hills to the 
bed of the Fish River. Here many a wagon has been plundered, 



183 



and many a driver lost his life, in the last and previous wars. 
Every turn of the road was an ambush, from which the Kafirs 
sprung suddenly upon the teams and their leaders, before the 
driver on the voovkist was aware that danger was near. A forest 
of euphorbias, aloes, and other succulent plants grow, in the 
richest luxuriance, all over the rocky steeps through which 
the road has been hewn. At the foot the traveller passes 
through the upper end of a large basin in the hills, into 
which the waters of the Fish Eiver might be turned with 
comparative ease, converting miles of country into rich pasture 
and agricultural lands. Half an hour's drive over a long, 
low, intervening ridge brings us to Fort Brown, on the 
banks of the Fish Eiver. Fort Brown, lying in a hollow 
perfectly shut in by hills on all sides, is noted as being one 
of the hottest places in the Colony, and on this day the heat 
was almost insufferable. After taking a light early dinner, we 
drank kettles full of hot tea unqualified with sugar or milk, 
one of the most cooling and refreshing beverages that thirsty 
heated travellers can imagine. It was out of the question to 
think of moving on for an hour or two, so we stripped ourselves 
of all superfluous articles of dress, till we came down to little 
more than the inspector, whom we had left sauntering at the 
toll, had on, ordered more hot tea, and stretched ourselves on 
the cool floor of the thatch-roofed cottage which stands opposite 
the fort, and calls itself the something or another hotel. As 
my readers may grow sick of my repeated asseverations regard- 
ing the heat, let me just tell them how another traveller, who 
came into the room shortly after us, summed it up. He was 
an old gentleman, evidently a veteran soldier, and one not 
acquainted with modern theological notions on future places 
of punishment, but firmly believing in the old orthodox doc- 
trines. Coming out of the glare of the sun, which struck 
through the opened door into our cool retreat like the blast 
from a furnace, he threw himself helplessly down beside us, 
and ejaculated, " Whey ! well, there's one place hotter than 
this at any rate !" His tone was so comically serious, that it 
was very evident that his remark referred to no place in South 
Africa, or elsewhere on the habitable globe. I have said that 



184 



he seemed to have been a soldier ; and he had not long seated 
himself, or, rather, followed our example as to dress and atti- 
tude, when he entertained us with accounts of his residence at 
Fort Brown and other frontier posts during the wars. He was 
very strong in his condemnation of the Home Government for 
building such expensive and unsuitable establishments all over 
the frontier, and then leaving them to fall to ruins after a few 
months' residence. " There's this beastly hot hole," he said. 
" Look at its position, how could we ever command the surround- 
ing country, or know anything of what was going on half a mile 
beyond our gates ? Kafirs have no cannon to bring into posi- 
tion against us, it is true, so for that matter you might build a 
fort in a vley if you like ; but a good view and a good telescope 
have a great deal to do with good generalship in this country. 
Then there are Fort Wilshire, Fort Peddie, Fort Armstrong, 
Fort Hare, Fort White, Fort Cox, and half a score more, which 
were only built to be evacuated. Mind you, these places cost 
hundreds of thousands of pounds, and now they can't be let or 
sold for as many farthings. And now there is some talk of 
evacuating all the military buildings at Graham's Town and 
Fort Beaufort, and moving the troops on to King William's 
Town (this was before the actual removal), and fresh forts and 
barracks will be built, and then the Home Government will tell 
the colonists, when they get saucy about British KarTraria, 
' Look what a mint of money we have expended for its defence.' 
If the soldiers are so migratory, why can't the Government 
accommodate them more comfortably, according to their habits ? 
The boers trekked through Natal and the interior, and defied 
us, and hordes of native tribes, in their ox-wagon camps. An 
Englishman's house may be his castle, but a frontier farmer's 
and soldier's wagon ought to be his. He can easily make it 
proof against assegais and Kafir bullets. He can cook his 
supper under the buikplank, serve it up to his wife and children 
on the voorJilst, and then turn the family in to roost securely 
and comfortably for the night in the wide space between that 
and the achterkist. A South African wagon is the greatest 
institution ever set a-goiug in this country. It is house, 
khip, carriage, and luggage-van in one, the largest but most 



185 



comfortable multum — not exactly in parvo though — that ever was 
invented. I must go and span mine in, for I must be in town 
before morning." Saying which the old veteran left us and 
went out into the heat. I hope the Government or officious 
M. P.'s will hunt up and consult the old gentleman when next 
they discuss military affairs in South Africa, in Parliament or 
elsewhere. 

Getting our cart in readiness as the sun began to decline, 
and the thunder-clouds which had gathered about the Winter- 
berg floated, growing and darkening, towards us, threatening a 
welcome cooling thunderstorm, we crossed the bridge — one of 
the most cumbrous and yet ricketty-looking things ever thrown 
over a river — and travelled on, as fast as the heat would permit, 
towards the Koonap. The road in many places skirts the banks 
of the river, and often actually in the bed where it flows, and 
ever and anon we caught a glimpse of the dark red turbid 
waters through the willows and mimosas which thickly stud 
the banks. As we ascend the Koonap heights — famous fast- 
nesses of the Kafirs — the mounted frontier policeman who 
accompanies us — he was formerly a post-rider — points out 
various scenes of rough encounter and the very • stones against 
which the blood and brains of Norden and others spattered 
in the war of '47. 

"When we reach the top of the heights, the character of the 
country begins gradually to change into more softened yet 
luxuriant beauty. The vegetation shows that the soil is richer 
and less rocky. The euphorbias and aloes which grow along 
krantzes and among stones cease, and smooth roads over long 
undulating grassy ridges enable us to travel with greater speed 
through mimosa groves, in fragrant blossom, towards that 
paradise of the Colony through which the various branches of 
the Kat Eiver run. Let us for the present strike off from the 
Fort Beaufort road, and follow that which leads over Leeuw- 
fontein to Alice. After another long rest for man and beast 
at the former place, at a road-side accommodation-house, half 
farm, half inn, at which they charge nothing for the huge 
basins of tea which we empty, but so much the more for the 
forage, we speed on to our journey's end ; but taking a short 



186 



cut along an old road, our horses stumble, our cart flounders, 
and we jolt for an hour or more over one of the roughest series 
of gullies that ever washed out an old wagon-track. The sun 
is going down as we reach the Kat Kiver : the whole heaven 
is black with coming rain, and the distant mutter of thunder 
comes towards us as we watch the forks of lightning shooting 
among the crags of the Katberg. Soon the storm is down 
upon us. It grows so dark that we cannot see the leaders in 
the cart ; we lose our way continually, to find it again with the 
next flash, upon which the thunder follows so loudly and 
rapidly, that one who had never been out of the Western 
Province before w T ould have become rather nervous, and never 
been able to keep "Western-bred horses in the traces. The first 
great cooling drops fall clattering to the ground, and in a few 
moments more we have a most delicious and refreshing bath 
after the exhausting heat of the day. The horses, even, are 
revived, and clatter through the rain with renewed energy. In 
half an hour the storm is over, and the moon rises and mounts 
through a cloudless sky, and we discover that we have made 
rapid progress through the dark. Peffer's Kop and the Chumie 
Mountain rise right before us, the Hog's Back is clearly defined 
against the sky, and below us the moonbeams glisten on the 
waters of the Degene, a wood-fringed little lake at the bend of 
the Chumie River, round which clusters the pretty little village 
— or town as it calls itself — of Alice, where w T e halt for the 
night. 



THE DAYS OF GOVEENOE VAN NOOT. 



[OLD CAPE HISTORY.] 

Some time ago, our worthy Librarian, Mr. Maskew, put into 
my hands a very rare old German book, presented to the South 
African Public Library by that liberal patron of the institution, 
Mr. Advocate Hiddingh. It is, I believe, the only copy in the 
Colony, and repeated attempts have been made, but always un- 
successfully, to procure another copy in Europe. The title-page 
informs us that it is the " Biography of Mr. Eudolph Siegfried 
Allemann, formerly Captain of Militia, Chief of the Garrison, 
and Commandant of the Castle, as also Chief Merchant in rank, 
President of the Senate of Justice, and Assessor of the Council 
of Police, in service of the Dutch East India Company at the 
Cape of Good Hope. With an accurate description of that 
Promontory." It was written and published at Glogau, in 
Germany, by 0. P. Muntzel — at least that is all I can make of 
the author's name, which is almost illegible in this copy. The 
opportunities he had to become acquainted with the life and 
adventures of his hero are thus related in the introductory 
chapter: — " I had not only the honour to serve under him a 
long time in a civil appointment, or, as they are wont to say at 
the Cape of Good Hope, with the pen, but also to instruct, as 
Informator (tutor), his three eldest children, namely, his son 
Nicholas Anton, and his two daughters, Gertrude and Christine, 
in the Dutch language, writing, and arithmetic, and also in the 
elements of the Christian religion. For several years I dined 
at his table, and was, besides, provided by Madame Allemann 
with breakfast and supper, also with tea, coffee, sugar, and 
tobacco, and also often received, especially on New Year's day, 



188 



beautiful presents. Besides all this, I have often had the honour, 
during leisure hours, of enjoying friendly intercourse with him, 
both in his house and in his garden ; but never so far forgot 
the respect due to him as to venture to ask him about his 
ancestors and the place of his birth." The book is written 
throughout in a very quaint and entertaining style. The minute 
and graphic record, with great solemnity, of the most trivial 
every-day occurrences, often reminds the reader of Bos well's 
model Biography ; while frequent and inimitable touches of 
quiet, unconscious humour, recall some of the richest tit-bits in 
Pepys' Diary. Internal evidence will convince every reader of 
the book at all acquainted with the Cape history of the last 
century, that a perfect picture of the times is given, and that 
all that came under the author's own personal observation is 
related with the strictest accuracy. But I leave others to judge 
whether the wonderful narrative of Governor Van Noot's death, 
which I have extracted, is or can be veracious history. I only 
know that the remarkable events said to have preceded and 
followed the sudden death of Van Noot in 1728, were in their 
young days related as facts to many old people still living in 
the Colony. A descendant of Allemann, this soldier of fortune, 
who rose from the ranks to the highest military and civil ap- 
pointments, is a pensioner of the Government, formerly in 
service at Swellendam, and now living at the Paaii. The 
following translations include the principal events which befel 
Mr. Allemann from the period of the arrival of Governor Van 
Noot:— 

GOVEKNOE VAN NOOT. 

" The new Governor was called Noot, and with his person he 
brought to this beautiful promontory of the Cape of Good Hope 
much need ; but at last, as will be seen in the sequel, plunged 
himself into an anguish of soul from which may God, in His 
mercy, preserve all people. He was a sullen, self-willed, mali- 
cious, foolhardy, coarse, and brutal man. He knew how to put 
on a friendly face and mien at times, but it was dissimulation ; 
and the more friendly his conduct, the less was he to be trusted. 
Besides this, he was meanly jealous and avaricious. 



189 



" As soon as he arrived in the bay and the ship was at anchor, 
he ordered the ship's chief-surgeon into his presence, and when 
the latter entered the cabin he commanded him to prepare a 
plaster on a piece of black sarsenet, and to put that on his right 
eye. 6 Noble sir,' answered the surgeon ; ' I was not aware 
that anything was wrong with your eye : permit me 3 at least, I 
pray you, to examine the disease, that I may prepare the plaster 
accordingly.' ' Hold your tongue !' cried the Governor, ' and 
put on the plaster.' The chief-surgeon got a harmless plaster 
and put it on the Governor's right eye; and with this plaster 
on the Governor came on shore. Every one thought that he 
had only one eye, and that he had probably lost the other in 
some battle. 

"After the lapse of three days, he ordered the chief-surgeon 
into his presence again and commanded him to take the plaster 
from the right eye and put it over the left. During this time 
the Governor behaved towards every one in a very friendly, 
engaging, and courteous manner. But again, after three days, 
he summoned the chief- surgeon, and ordered him to take the 
plaster from his left eye. He then stepped to the window, and 
said, 6 Now it is all right, now I can see right well.' And, 
indeed, from that hour he showed by his behaviour that he saw, 
and wished, and sought to see more than was agreeable to many 
an honest man. Most of all, he directed his malicious designs 
against Mr. la Fontaine, who had conducted the Government 
during the interregnum. As commonly happens at such 
changes of government, flatterers and slanderers may have 
ingratiated themselves with the new Governor, and blackened 
Mr. la Fontaine's character, and so made him hateful in his 
sight. Consequently the Governor wished by all means to 
attack Mr. la Fontaine, and sought out everything to be able to 
convict him of some fraud and embezzlement. He discovered 
secretly that Mr. Allemann had been the acting Governor's 
confidential agent, and that he had enjoyed the best oppor- 
tunities to enable him to draw certain advantages from the 
Company's lands. Mr. Allemann had to appear, and first, 
under all sorts of promises, but afterwards, as these availed 
nothing, with heavy threats, the Governor sought to coax or to 



190 



force a confession out of him, to the injury of Mr. la Fontaine. 
But in vain ; Mr. Allernann would not only not confess, but as 
he knew of nothing bad against Mr. la Fontaine, he defended 
that gentleman most convincingly and emphatically. Governor 
Van Noot was displeased at this, flew into a passion, and said 
to Mr. Allernann, with an insolent air and brutal voice, ' Fel- 
low, how dare you venture to speak to me, much less to address 
me in such terms?' 4 Noble sir,' answered Mr. Allernann, 
' it has pleased you to question me, and consequently I must 
answer ; I venture to come before my God, and in prayer to 
speak to Him; why then should I not venture to speak with you, 
and to answer the questions which you are pleased to put to 
me?' 'A man from the guard!' cried the Governor out of 
the window. A corporal, or rapportganger, as they are called, 
then came up running at the order. Mr. Allernann was to be 
taken under arrest to the main guard, and confined in the 
common guard-room of the soldiers, while the corporal was 
ordered by the Governor to go forthwith to the Secretary's 
office, and there immediately to have a sentence made out, in 
terms of which Mr. Allernann was to be sent to Batavia as a 
sailor in the very first ship !" 

He was, fortunately, however, as we shall see from what fol- 
lows, saved from this fate by being unexpectedly called upon to 
minister to and gratify the Governor's childish vanity and love 
of ostentation ; and, succeeding in doing what no one else could 
do, he was set at liberty and taken into favour : — 

" As soon as Governor Van Noot received in Holland the 
patent of his appointment to the Government of the Cape of 
Good Hope, he resolved, soon after his safe arrival, to make an 
inspecting journey through the whole country, as far as it was 
inhabited by Europeans. For that purpose he had a tent made, 
which was very large, beautiful, and roomy. It was a pavilion, 
made somewhat in the fashion of the tents used by our generals 
in the field. This tent he took with him, and when he had 
safely arrived at the Cape, and everything belonging to him had 
been taken out of the ship, this tent was also brought on shore. 
The Governor had never seen it pitched, and had not had an 
opportunity of admiring it in Holland. So one day he took it 



191 



into his head to have it pitched near the gate, between the 
Castle and the Half-moon (battery), there to admire it himself, 
and to let it stand several days to be aired. By his orders the 
tent was brought out by the sailors ; the Governor himself came 
to the spot, accompanied by the officer on duty, Lieutenant 
Ehenius. But who was to pitch it ? The sailors had never 
seen anything of the kind in their lives, and of the soldiers 
present, none had ever been in the field, or ever seen the pitch- 
ing of such a tent. The sailors and their quarter-master tried 
for hours to get everything belonging to it in order, but all in 
vain. The Governor cursed and swore, and called upon all the 
devils in hell, but not one of them came to pitch the tent. 
Lieutenant Ehenius lingered a little behind the Governor, went 
off to the guard-house, beckoned to Mr. Allemann, and asked 
him quickly if he could pitch such a large tent, with the pavilion 
belonging to it ? ' yes,' was the answer. Immediately Lieu- 
tenant Ehenius stepped forward, like one awakening from deep 
thought, and, approaching the Governor, said : ' Noble sir, I 
know some one who can pitch the tent ; but I dare scarcely 
venture to name him, as he has fallen under your displeasure.' 
' Who is it ?' asked the Governor. ' Sergeant Allemann, who 
is under arrest,' answered Mr. Ehenius; 4 he has been in the 
Eoyal Prussian service, and will certainly know something 
about such work.' 6 Let him be brought here.' Mr. Allemann 
was called ; he approached the Governor respectfully, with his 
hat in his hand, and was asked by the latter if he could trust 
himself to pitch the tent ? 6 That can be done with little 
trouble,' was the answer, and immediately he laid down his hat, 
put the tent-poles through the upper holes of the pavilion, set 
the vanes on the top of them, fastened the storm-lines to the 
iron stanchions, raised the tent-poles with the pavilion aloft, 
fixed the lines in the ground with pegs, then spread out 
the pavilion with tent-pins, hung the lined sides by their 
hooks in the slings, fastened them below with their pins, 
and there stood the whole tent, with all its brave show. 
The Governor first went round the tent on the outside 
and thereafter in the inside. It pleased him greatly, and 
he commanded that, until further orders, it should stand 



192 



there for several clays. Thereivpon he returned to Government 
House, and said, ' Allemann, come with me.' Mr. Allemann 
followed him closely into his room, and when the Governor had 
there dismissed his people, he turned to Mr. Allemann, and said 
to him, ' Allemann, will you serve me, too, as faithfully and 
confidentially as you served Mr. la Fontaine ?' Mr. Allemann 
answered the question with these words : ' Noble Governor, 
whose bread I eat his song I sing.' ' Well said,' answered the 
Governor ; ' give me your hand.' He did so. ' Well, then,' 
said the Governor, 6 you are free from your arrest ; go to the 
Governor's guard, — you are my sergeant : the present sergeant 
will get your post at the mill. You know that I intend to 
make a journey and inspect the country ; you will travel with 
me, see that the saddles and boots for the people are got ready 
and delivered in time. Besides, you may dine with my butler ; 
and when you have finished dinner you can come to me and 
received my commands.' Mr. Allemann humbly thanked the 
Governor for his condescension, and returned to the main-guard 
to report these events to Lieutenant Ehenius. The Governor 
saw Mr. Allemann, through the window, proceeding to the main- 
guard : he recollected the error committed, opened the window 
and cried, ' A man from the guard !' The corporal came in all 
haste, and the Governor called to him, ' Tell the officer on 
duty that Mr. Allemann has been discharged from arrest.' Mr. 
Allemann turned round, bowed deeply to the Governor, pro- 
ceeded to thank Lieutenant Ehenius, then reported himself to 
the Governor's guard, took over the sergeant's blue uniform, 
ornamented with double stripes of broad gold lace on the pockets 
and cuffs, and became sergeant of the Governor's guard, which 
was announced the same evening at roll-call, and whereat the 
whole African world at the Cape rejoiced greatly. 

" One day, after the saddles and boots for the guard had been 
delivered, and Mr. Allemann had reported this to the Governor, 
he informed him at the same time that neither the two trum- 
peters, nor the corporal, nor any of the twelve guardsmen, who 
were to accompany him on his journey, could ride. The most 
of them had never crossed a horse's back in their lives, and 
knew nothing about feeding, saddling, grooming, and managing 



193 



their steeds. If, therefore, he could get the Governor's per- 
mission to do so, he would take them daily to the Governor's 
stables, and teach them riding, and everything connected with 
it. The Governor asked Mr. Allemann if he understood riding 
professionally ; and when the latter answered that he had 
already served the King of Prussia as lieutenant in a cavalry 
corps, it seemed as if the Governor had suddenly been struck 
with something quite unexpectedly, and from that moment he 
manifested on every occasion great esteem for Mr. Allemann. 
He permitted him also, according to the request made, to use 
the Company's horses daily, provided this was done in the 
forenoon, so that the guard could be at hand, if required, in the 
afternoon. For it must be borne in mind that, whenever the 
Governor goes out, the two trumpeters blow their trumpets, 
both when he goes out and comes back, and the sergeant and 
corporal with twelve men always accompany the Governor 
everywhere." 

After a chapter devoted to the recital of the breaking up of 
the establishment at Eio de la Goa, we have a chapter relating 
to the Governor's journey, from which we glean the following 
notes and incidents of travel in olden times : — 

" The journey was nxed and arranged from day to day, so 
that every one could know beforehand where the Governor was 
to be on a certain day. Those baggage wagons which were 
spanned with oxen had to travel on in front all night until day- 
break, and call a halt at an appointed spot, so that the cattle 
could find grazing during the day. At break of day, the cook 
went on with the cook's wagon, and everywhere where the 
Governor did not lodge or dine in the houses of the country 
people, the large tent was pitched by the sailors drilled to that 
service. 

" On the day of departure, as soon as the great gate of the 
Castle had been opened, Mr. Allemann sent the two trumpeters, 
the corporal, and the twelve men of the guard to the Company's 
stables, where they themselves saddled their horses, and came 
riding into the Castle, and drew up in front of the Governor's 
house. Behind them, a slave led Mr. Allemann's horse. He 
had still several things to arrange in the Governor's house, and 
o 



194 



in the meantime the guardsmen dismounted from their horses ; 
but as soon as Mr. Allemann gave the signal agreed upon, and 
tapped at a window, the trumpeters mounted their horses and 
sounded the remount note. These trumpeters were in reality 
amateur musicians, and not trained trumpeters. But Mr. 
Allemann had whistled and hummed some martial strains to 
them until they could give some signals according to the correct 
art. When the Governor was quite ready for the journey, and 
was preparing to place himself with his company in his carriage, 
Mr. Allemann accompanied him, helped him into the wagon, 
flung himself quickly into the saddle, and before the coach with 
six horses could turn, Mr. Allemann, with the trumpeters, was 
already at the gate ; and so the journey began. The Governor 
first travelled through the nearest farmsteads, where the Com- 
pany itself had managers, overseers, and men engaged in various 
occupations, and there was rather sharp work in the review of 
these. The journey was then continued to Hout's Bay, False 
Bay, Salhunda (Saldanha ?) Bay, which are places at which the 
sea takes such a bend into the land, that ships can lie there at 
anchor ; and there many proposals for security against the 
landing from hostile ships, and for the improvement of these 
harbours for the service of the Dutch ships, were discussed, 
which were never carried out. Further, the journey extended to 
the districts of Stellenbosch, Drakenstein, and Waveren (Tul- 
bagh ?) The Governor crossed the so-called Four-and-twenty 
Bivers, yea, also, he went over the Little as far as the Great 
Berg Biver. He inspected Piquetberg, Groenekloof, Boodezand, 
Tygerberg, Hottentot's Holland (the best wine land after Con- 
stantia) ; and, in short, he went everywhere where he thought 
his presence might effect some good, and where, from the reports 
he had received, he thought it necessary to inspect the country. 
But nothicg very remarkable occurred during the whole journey. 
The country people everywhere entertained the Governor, and 
those accompanying him, to the best of their ability ; that is to 
say, they gave the cook whatever they had for their own houses 
in the way of meat and poultry, vegetables and fruit. But they 
were, while doing so, very quiet and reserved, because they had 
teen warned beforehand that the Governor was not to be trusted 



195 



overmuch. Although they feasted splendidly everywhere, and 
although Mr. Allemann had during the journey always to ride 
near the carriage, and on that side on which the Governor sat, 
and to entertain him with stories about the King of Prussia's 
States, and his military forces, and although he occasionally 
and opportunely threw in a bon mot for amusement, which 
seemed to please the Governor greatly, the latter, as soon as he 
had got out of the coach, and entered the house or tent, broke 
off all conversation with him. He, it is true, always gave him 
his orders daily, and at every place, but always with a serious 
air, and without extending his speech further than was abso- 
lutely necessary. Mr. Allemann, on his part, although he had 
positively assured himself of the fact that he had got into the 
Governor's favour, was sensible enough never to overstep those 
bounds which subordination had drawn between a Governor 
and a sergeant, and within which he kept himself with the 
greatest respect. 

M Wherever the Governor came, either to dine or to sleep for 
the night, he never inquired into his host's circumstances ; but 
from every host he tried to learn the circumstances of his 
neighbours, but he never discovered more than he might know ; 
and the country people pretended everywhere to be so simple, as 
if there was a broad gulf between them and their neighbours 
over which they could seldom go, to get or hear anything from 
their nearest friends. When, on the contrary, one or other of 
the inhabitants came to the Governor with some petition for 
some service, he never got any other resolution or answer than 
the grave, Spanish-like reply, ' We'll see.' 

" With the exception of a few trifling orders for the improve- 
ment of roads and the construction of a small bridge, nothing 
was ordered or undertaken on this journey. So the Governor 
returned again, after a journey ol five or six weeks \ and on the 
last morning of his travels he rode round Table Bay on horse- 
back, — for on this day he did not get into his coach, but 
mounted a led saddle-horse, and so rode into the Castle. The 
two trumpeters rode in front, then came the Governor, with a 
member of the Senate of Justice or of Police, or a merchant, 
and behind them came Sergeant Allemann with his men. The 

O 2 



196 



Governor's carriage and some provision wagons followed in the 
rear, and so the procession passed into the Castle. The soldiers 
in garrison, one squadron of burgher cavalry and two com- 
panies of foot, all in their best mountings, and with flying 
colours and sounding instruments, had arranged themselves 
outside the Castle for the reception of the Governor. When 
riding past he w T as saluted by the officers, the colours were 
waved according to the Dutch custom, arms were presented, a 
march was played, and guns fired from the bastions of the 
Castle. The ships lying in the bay had their masts and rigging 
decorated with flags and streamers, and made a brave noise 
with their guns. Lastly, as soon as the Governor rode through 
the gate of the Castle, the soldiers in garrison, the burgher 
squadron of horse, and the two companies fired three salutes 
with small arms, each of which was answered by a single gun 
from the Castle. 

"With such marks of honour the Governor came riding into 
the Castle. The honourable the ' second officer,' the Fiscal 
Independent, the chief-merchants (the captain commanding the 
troops on the parade), the under-merchants, the book-keepers, 
assistants, the burgher magistrates, stood ready to welcome the 
Governor, when Mr. Allemann sprang lightly from his horse, 
and held the Governor's right stirrup, to ensure his dismounting 
safely. As soon as the latter had dismounted, he took off his 
hat to Mr. Allemann, and said, ' Ensign, you will dine with 
me to-day.' Mr. Allemann understood the compliment, and 
thanked him most cordially, dismissed his men, and ordered 
them to ride to the Company's stables, w T here they delivered 
the horses they had taken with them, and brought back 
the saddles and bridles into the Castle. Mr. Allemann im- 
mediately divested himself of his sergeant's uniform, put on 
another dress, which he had worn as sergeant or superin- 
tendent of the granary, and attended at twelve to dine with 
the Governor. There were other gentlemen and guests pre- 
sent ; the ensign was congratulated, for all were delighted, 
and in the evening at roll-call it was announced that the 
former Sergeant Allemann had been promoted to an ensigncy. 
The appointment had, however, to be considered in Holland by 



197 



the Chamber of XVII., and within a year was confirmed with 
high approbation.*' 

AMUSING COUETSHIP AND HAPPY MARRIAGE OF MR. ALLEMANN. 

While engaged at the Castle Allemann sometimes went 
out for sport, and on one occasion met with the following 
adventure : — 

" As a huntsman, he once came, about midday, to the resi- 
dence of a farmer, or boer, named Meyboom. Mr. Allemann 
entered the house, saluted those present, and prayed for a 
friendly reception. He was welcomed : the table was soon 
spread and a good dinner provided. They ate and drank. 
After dinner, tea was, according to custom, handed round, a 
pipe was smoked, conversation followed, and then supper again 
in the evening, — and Mr. Allemann remained with his good 
and agreeable host all night. He (the host) was a widower 
with an only son, who was blind, and three daughters. The 
son had lost his sight in his fifth year, in an attack of small- 
pox, which is very prevalent there every fifty years. They had 
tried every remedy to restore his sight ; he had even been sent 
to an operator in Holland, but all in vain. Yea, the father 
would gladly have spent many thousand guilders to help his 
son, for he was very rich. He was a baker by trade and had 
formerly baked bread and biscuits in Cape Town for sale. He 
suddenly acquired great wealth, and it was suspected that he 
had picked up a prize of great value at a shipwreck. The oldest 
of his three daughters was married to the then acting Magazine- 
master, Valck. The second, called Abbetje — probably a con- 
traction for Albertine — directed the household, the kitchen, and 
the dairy. The youngest, Gertrude, was a little child. 

" While Mr. Allemann, as has been said, spent the day with 
this family everything passed off well ; but when bedtime came, 
old Meyboom wanted to have a separate room prepared for and 
pointed out to Mr. Allemann, But Miss Abbetje, who carried 
her nose in the air, objected, and would not consent to such an 
arrangement, but ordered a slave girl to prepare a bed for Mr, 
Allemann, as a common soldier and huntsman, in the kitchen. 
Now, it is very well known that the Dutch kitchens are very 
o s 



198 



much cleaner than the German ones, and that they are in 
reality rooms with large fire-ranges, in which cooking goes on. 
But in that country two or three slaves usually bring their 
bedding about bedtime into the kitchen, sleep there, and rise 
again very early in the morning. Therefore Mademoiselle 
Abbetje might have had so much regard for a servant of the 
Company as to show him, as was customary, to a separate room. 
But this was not done ; he had to sleep in the kitchen ; and 
next morning, after he had taken his coffee and breakfasted, he 
took leave, with thanks for his kind reception, and went away 
with no very pleasant thoughts about Miss Abbetje. More 
about this anon." 

Years passed, during which Old Meyboom died, and the 
blind son having married a sensible and energetic girl, who 
managed his farm for him, Miss Abbetje and young Gertrude 
came to live in Cape Town with their married sister, Mrs. 
Valck. At her house Allemann often met Miss Abbetje ; and 
she, " as often as she saw Mr. Allemann, thought of the 
bed which she had prepared for him in the kitchen, blushed 
with shame, and avoided his society as much as was possible 
in accordance with good manners. Mr. Allemann remarked 
this, but did not concern himself about such bagatelles, always 
treated her with the greatest courtesy, and further pursued his 
ordinary course." It was an evident case of mutual attach- 
ment ; but while the young lady, ashamed of her former rude 
behaviour, avoided Allemann, he on his side seemed to be afraid 
to lift his eyes to such a very rich young heiress. Governor 
Van Noot must, as will be seen from the following narrative, 
have got some inkling of the state of affairs, and in a fit of good 
humour, or to serve his own ends, resolved to help his new fa- 
vourite to win a wife. In the chapter succeeding that which 
recounts Van Noot's tour through the country, with Allemann 
in attendance as sergeant of his guard, we read : — 

" Shortly after, when the Governor had confirmed Mr. Alle- 
mann's appointment as ensign, it happened that the Governor 
once left the Castle, just when Mr. Allemann was on guard, to 
visit the town itself, or place where the burghers and most of 
the civil servants of the Company lived. The trumpeters 



199 



announced the exit of the Governor by blowing their trumpets. 
Mr. Allemann ordered the men on guard under arms, the Go- 
vernor came, attended by his guard, and passed the guard at 
the gate, who presented arms while the drums were beat, and 
Mr. Allemann saluted with his spontoon, not with one hand, in 
Dutch fashion, but with a brave bearing, in Prussian style, then 
handed his spontoon to a corporal, and accompanied the Go- 
vernor, according to custom, to the outside of the Castle-gate. 
* How goes it, my worthy Ensign Allemann ?' asked the Gover- 
nor as soon as he had passed the gate. * Bather poorly and 
tightly,' answered he. 1 And why?' asked the Governor, look- 
ing at Mr. Allemann. ( I have had to equip myself as an offi- 
cer, and have had to incur so many expenses that my purse got 
very weak,' was Mr. Allemann's answer; 6 and besides,' he con- 
tinued, ' I have received my new uniform on account, which I 
must serve out before lean draw my pay.' ' Don't fret, Mr. 
Ensign,' said the Governor, cheering him up ; ' I have helped 
you to honour and will also help you to means.' Mr. Allemann 
thanked him, recommended himself to his further consideration, 
and remained standing while the Governor pursued his way. 

" Now we will follow the Governor, and see where he went 
that day. He wanted to visit Parson Beck, but did not find 
him at home. From there he went past the Company's ship- 
yard and marine store, and resolved to look up the magazine- 
master, Valck, who lived there. He entered the sitting-room 
unannounced, and there found Mrs. Valck herself, her two 
sisters, and several other young Cape ladies of agreeable man- 
ners. But the magazine-master himself was not present. The 
Governor was welcomed and invited to sit down. He did so, 
and asked for a pipe of tobacco, conversed with the ladies, drank 
a couple of cups of tea, and seemed well pleased, but addressed 
himself most of the time to one of the ladies who seemed to 
have made the most favourable impression upon him. In the 
meantime the magazine-master had been called, and the Gover- 
nor went with him through the ship-yard and into the maga- 
zine. After that he went back, opened the sitting-room door 
where the ladies were himself, and took leave with the usual 
Dutch compliment — { Vaarwel, juffers (' Farewell, ladies'). They 



200 



all rose, returned the compliment, and accompanied him to the 
street door. The Governor visited several other houses, then 
returned home, and reached the Castle towards eveniug. Mr. 
Allemann received him with the proper honours due to him, 
and the Governor thanked him with an unusually pleasant air. 
That was all very well ; but every one, even Mr. Allemann, al- 
ready had a suspicion that the Governor conducted himself in 
the most friendly way when he had discovered something which 
would give him cause and opportunity to come down upon some 
one. Nothing of the kind was, however, remarked for several 
days ; on the contrary, everything seemed very quiet. 

" Niggardly as this Governor was, he liked company about 
him to distract his thoughts, like one whose conscience is awake 
and who seeks by all sorts of dissipation to deaden and quiet it. 
He never stinted in eating, drinking, and all kinds of refresh- 
ment. But he could easily do this ; for, as Governor, he had a 
free pantry — that is to say, the East India Company kept him 
provided with everything he required for the kitchen and 
cellar. 

" One day he chose to invite to dinner as his company the 
magazine-master, Valck, his wife, and her two sisters. They 
were quite in a flutter about this invitation, and would rather 
have stayed at home ; but the Governor's invitation was a com- 
mand to this family, and I should not have advised any one to 
refuse him anything. They accepted the invitation, and pre- 
pared to go about 12 o'clock. The covers were laid, the courses 
were served up, and they dined, according to custom, to the 
sound of trumpets. They enjoyed themselves, and sat longer 
than usual at table. Upon rising from table, the Governor 
called Miss Abbetje aside to the furthest window of the dining- 
hall. She curtsied deeply before him and awaited his com- 
mands. 

" 1 Miss Meyboom,' said the Governor, 1 I have a favour to 
ask ; but you must promise me beforehand that you will not 
refuse me.' 

" ' Noble Governor,' answered she, * I cannot imagine what 
the favour can be, as I am in duty bound to obey your com- 
mand.* 



201 



" * No command ; it is only a request which I make, but 
expect beforehand that you will promise to fulfil it.' 

" ' If it is within my power, and does not affect my honour, I 
will not hesitate to do whatever I can to please the honourable 
the Governor.' 

" 4 It is in your power, and depends entirely upon your free 
will. You cannot suppose that I would propose anything 
that would affect your honour. So you will promise not to 
give me an unfavourable answer.' 

" ' If that be the case, I wait to hear the honourable Gover- 
nor's command.' 

" ' No command at all, I assure you ; give me your hand that 
you will not return an unfavourable answer.' 

" Miss Meyboom held out her hand, the Governor took it 
and held it fast, and said, ' Listen now, Miss Meyboom. I 
have a partner in view for you ; he is a fine young fellow, 
polite and intelligent, and in a good position. I have a 
liking for him, and will see to his further promotion. What do 
you say ?' 

" ' If that is the proposal, I pray you humbly to tell me who 
the party is ?' 

" 6 It is Ensign Allemann. I am quite convinced that he is a 
party you cannot refuse." 

" ' If the honourable the Governor thinks that he is the party 
for me, I will not object to give him my hand, provided that 
Ensign Allemann longs to have me, not simply because it is 
the honourable the Governor's command, but from his own 
free will and desire.' 

" 4 Well said ;' and hereupon the Governor opened the window 
and called, 6 A man from the guard !' A corporal came upon 
the order, and the Governor called to him : ' The Ensign Alle- 
mann will wait upon me immediately.' 

" Mr. Allemann got himself ready without delay, paid his 
respects to the Governor, and then saluted the company. Mean- 
while the Governor still held Miss Meyboom' s hand, and kept 
her beside him at the window. * Mr. Ensign,' said he, * I have 
been your deputy suitor to-day. I have offered your person to 
Miss Meyboom, and she has promised me, if you wish to marry 



202 



her without my command, of your free will and desire, she will 
not object to offer you her hand. How do you feel inclined?' 

" ' Noble Sir, 1 answered Mr. Allemann, 'I would consider it 
the greatest honour and happiness in the world, and will all 
my life acknowledge your gracious recommendation with the 
deepest gratitude, and try on every occasion to show myself 
worthy of it,' and, turning to Miss Meyboom, he continued : 
6 Most excellent young lady, I offer you my person, my heart, 
and my hand. As long as I have had the honour to know you, 
I have had the greatest esteem and love for you, but never 
dared to make you the proposal which the honourable the Go- 
vernor has graciously done for me. Quickly, I pray, make me 
happy, and gladden me with your good resolve, and a pleasing 
yes.' 

" ' Yes ; but you must promise me never more to think of 
what has passed.' She smiled when she said so. 

" ' I know of nothing; I love you from the bottom of my 
heart; there is my hand.' The Governor let go Miss Mey- 
boom's hand ; she held it out to Mr. Allemann, and he took and 
kissed it. 

" 1 On the mouth ! on the mouth !' cried out the Governor ; 
and Mr. Allemann was not slow to obey, nor Miss Meyboom to 
return the salute. 

" 6 "Wine here !' cried the Governor. Wine was brought ; the 
health of the new couple was drunk ; and now the Governor 
wanted to know what the young bride wished the bridegroom to 
bury in oblivion. The magazine-master's wife told him the 
story about the bed in the kitchen. The Governor pretended 
that the error committed was a grave one, deserving of very 
severe punishment, and dictated as a penalty that the young 
bride should always, after marriage, share her own bed-room 
with Ensign Allemann, instead of putting him in the kitchen. 
This caused some laughter, and the magazine-master carried 
the joke further, and advised the young bride, if she wanted to 
appeal against the sentence, to do so at once before the marriage. 
The young bride was embarrassed : but her sister, Mrs. Valck, 
took her part, and said that the lady had long since confessed 
her error, and repented ; so she would not appeal against the 



203 



sentence, but let it take effect ; and accordingly, after the lapse 
of three weeks, Mr. Allemann took possession of the quarters 
assigned to him. 

6 ' After they had amused themselves a little while with this 
joking, the Governor sent round to the principal gentlemen and 
servants of the Company, and invited them, their wives, and 
grown-up children, to a ball. They came without delay. The 
trumpeter and six hautboy-players from the garrison had to 
appear ; the Governor made known the betrothal of the new 
pair ; everywhere congratulations were heard ; and the Gover- 
nor, having opened the ball with the young bride, led her to 
the bridegroom. About eight o'clock in the evening they had 
supper, and at the dessert the Governor addressed the young 
bride in the following terms : ' Don't for a moment imagine, 
young lady, that I have arranged your marriage in the expecta- 
tion that you will assist and support your future husband with 
your fortune. By no means. I have assisted him to gain 
honour and a bride ; I will also help him to earn his bread. 
Mr. Lieutenant Ehenius' (who also happened to be present), 
' you know that Captain van den Berg has asked for his demis- 
sion. I have sent information to that effect to Holland, and at 
the same time proposed you as captain. You will soon receive 
the confirmation of your appointment. Meanwhile I wish you 
to take charge of the lands which Captain van den Berg has 
had under his supervision, and to hand over your present com- 
mission to Ensign Allemann.' 

" Lieutenant Bhenius thanked the Governor for so great a 
favour ; but prayed that the giving and taking over of the lands 
should be delayed until the running accounts had been closed, as 
was about to be done, so as to cause no confusion ; which was 
agreed to. Thereupon Mr. Allemann and the young bride also 
returned thanks for the Governor's gracious care and provision 
on their behalf. And then they rose from table and amused 
themselves till after midnight with all sorts of English country- 
dances, which are very fashionable at the Cape, and beautifully 
danced ; and then they all returned to their homes, much pleased 
and rejoiced over the happy union of the betrothed couple. 

" The young bride did not require to bestow much time or 



204 



money ou her marriage- outfit and future household, as she was 
already provided with every necessary. The banns were pub- 
lished for the first time the following Sunday, and within three 
weeks she was, without having had any notion of such a thing 
beforehand, an unengaged young lady, a bride, and a wife, and 
made Mr. Allemann a happy and contented husband. They 
lived together very unitedly, pleased, contented, and happy. 
The young bride was not what you would call a beauty, but she 
was not hatefully ugly. She was rather tall and slender. Her 
figure and carriage were excellent, and even when she was the 
mother of five children she still looked like a young lady. The 
small-pox, whereby and wherefrom her brother had lost his 
sight, had left some marks on her face : before that she might 
have been very beautiful. She had much that was pleasing in 
her face, in her whole demeanour, and in her intercourse with 
others. And, above all, she had a fine intellect, and showed 
most excellent management in her household affairs, and in all 
other feminine duties and pursuits. She was a loving and loveable 
companion to her husband, and became the no less loving and 
loveable mother of several children, of whom I had the pleasure 
of seeing five alive, and had the honour of having the three 
eldest under my care and tuition. As something may be re- 
marked and found fault with in every person, her only fault was 
that she was rather ambitious. She would rather have been 
imposed upon than forgive anything to the prejudice of her 
rank and the respect due to it ; and I was once eye-witness of 
a case in which she, when sitting in a phaeton with the daughter 
of Mrs. Valck beside her, and driving the horses herself, was 
nearly run down by another carriage going in an opposite 
direction. She would not give the crown of the road to the 
other carriage, in which some one was sitting who had to give 
way to her in rank. The coachman was so ill-mannered as to 
ride in full trot against the phaeton, and if the owner sitting in 
the carriage had not at the last moment called out to his slave 
and ordered him to give way, a great accident might have taken 
place, owing to nothing else but an untimely ambition. Beyond 
this })oint cVhonneur, she was, however, in the habit of freely 
and lovingly associating with people of far humbler extraction 



205 



than herself. Even her slaves felt the burden of their servitude 
very little, and were very well cared for." 

SUDDEN, TRAGIC, AND TERRIBLE END OF GOVERNOR VAN NOOT. 

" Out of what has been related, and especially the gracious 
consideration shown by him to Mr. Allemann and his beloved 
wife, as also to the then lieutenant, afterwards Captain Ehenius, 
the reader may not unnaturally be led to suppose that Governor 
Van Noot was a true friend of his kind, a beneficent angel in 
human shape. But he was nothing of the sort ; he was, in the 
truest sense, the enemy of all, an incarnate devil. An 
astonishing contrast certainly. The vile tricks played by him, 
the indignities, the heavy punishments heaped upon all, alto- 
gether disproportioned to the often very trivial offences com- 
mitted, and his usual brutal behaviour towards high and low 
officials, citizens, farmers, soldiers, sailors, and slaves, every- 
where left traces of the saddest kind. It is not my business to 
entertain the reader with a diffuse recital of unpleasant tales, 
whose importance would not, at any rate, be understood, unless, 
to make myself intelligible, I entered into an endless detail of 
the circumstances and affairs of the country. For, in those 
distant lands, something of importance may happen which 
would here be considered a perfectly trivial affair. I will only 
adduce two classes of facts, as instances by which those whom 
they concerned suffered, through sheer caprice on the part of 
the Governor, irreparable injury. 

"1. There were farms which, as I shall subsequently have 
opportunity of explaining at greater length, paid the Company 
an annual quitrent of 24 rixdollars. They were not, however, 
the property of those holding them, nor could they be alienated. 
But when the holder of such a property died, his son or heirs 
prayed for a renewal of the lease, and it was never refused. If 
there were no heirs to hold the property, it was, with the ap- 
proval of the Council of Police, sold by public auction, and un- 
questionable right and confirmation of possession given to the 
buyer. But Governor Van Noot found on such occasions the 
finest opportunities to gratify his own caprice. He declared to 
the heirs or buyers that they had only inherited or bought the 



206 



buildings (opstallbig), but land and sand belonged to the Com- 
pany, and could not be inherited or bought. He, the Governor, 
for a consideration, gave the farm to a third person, and the 
heirs or purchasers had to come to an understanding with the 
new owner about the buildings, and accept a small sum of 
money, or break them down and go away. 

" A second instance of his malice was this : — Many young 
farmers annually associated together and went elephant-shoot- 
ing. They had for that purpose often to go 200 miles into the 
interior. They had to provide various wagons for the journey, 
a large quantity of provisions, a good supply of powder — in a 
word, they had to go to considerable expense. Their greatest 
profits on such expeditions are got by buying cattle and sheep 
from the Hottentots in exchange for glass beads, knives, mirrors, 
little bells, brass buttons, and such like wares. As they never 
can undertake such an expedition without the knowledge and 
consent of the Governor, several such companies about this 
time prayed for permission from Governor Van Noot to under- 
take the journey. Their prayer was in no case refused ; they 
provided themselves with wagons and draught cattle, engaged 
several Bastard Hottentots, and got together the necessary pro- 
visions for such a long and wearisome journey. But when they 
applied at the Company's stores to buy ammunition, tobacco, 
and the wares required for their trade, the storekeeper was for- 
bidden to supply them ; and w 7 hen they asked or prayed the 
Governor for an ordinance or permit, he had all sorts of ex- 
cuses for refusing it. In short, the people had to remain at 
home, and were in many cases ruined by the expenses to which 
they had been put. 

" A Governor who is a trickster can thus find a thousand 
opportunities to insult the officials and burghers and do them 
all sorts of injury. Out of one single circumstance, however, 
which involved Governor Van Noot in a sudden, tragic, and 
terrible end, the reader will sufficiently discover, understand, 
and acknowledge what sort of creature this monster was. 

" In the 7th chapter of this biography, I related the circum- 
stances connected with a mutiny, or rather a plot, at Terletan, 
on the Rio de la Goa — how it began and how it ended. Governor 



207 



Van Noot had himself, by command of the East India Com- 
pany, broken up that establishment ; he might therefore rightly 
have taken warning from that case, and not himself have given 
occasion for a similar occurrence at the Cape of Good Hope. 
But his mean avarice, and the malice of his black heart, show- 
ing favour to none, tempted him to an unheard of course of 
action. 

" My readers will remember that I have in several places re- 
ferred to the custom that such soldiers as could, by some trade 
which they had learnt, or by other occupations, earn more than 
they could by standing on guard, went out as free-ticket men 
(pasgcmgers), and received a monthly pay of 9 florins 12 stivers, 
which money, called service -money, was equally divided among 
all the soldiers actually serving in garrison, and which, accord- 
ing as there were many or few free-ticket men, amounted to 
about 24 or 28 stivers for every man. 

' ( As soon as the Governor came to know this, he pretended 
that some of the soldiers were very badly off for shoes, hose, 
and linen, and that therefore he wculd draw this service-money 
from the free-ticket men, and supply the soldiers with the above 
and other necessaries for their better equipment. But the fact 
was he wanted to put the money into his own pocket. Every 
possible argument was brought forward against the proposal ; 
the officers remonstrated, and said that the soldiers could not 
possibly exist under such an arrangement, and very likely dis- 
turhance, even mutiny, might be the result. But he would 
listen to no reason, and broke off all discussion with a ' sic volo 
sic jubeo.' The adjutant had consequently, on the first of every 
month, to deliver into the Governor's own hands the service- 
money that had been earned, with a list and description of the 
free-ticket men. Thereat the soldiers in service began to swear; 
they murmured, they complained, they prayed ; but naught 
would avail ; they were silenced with rude blows. 

" Throughout the whole of India, they call those who have 
either been there before, returned to Europe and come back 
again, or those who have lived in those countries for several 
years, Orlammen ; while new-comers, or those who have not 
been there long, are called Baaren. These two names are 



208 



corrupted words, taken originally from the Malay language, in 
which Oranglami means an old person or acquaintance, and 
Orang-baru, a new person. An Orlam, therefore, who conducts 
himself properly, and is known as a steady and honest person, 
has many and good opportunities of earning something among 
the burghers ; the Baaren, on the contrary, are not trusted at 
once because there is no saying what sort of characters they 
may be. These poor fellows are accordingly the worst off, and 
must manage to live on their twenty-eight stivers ration- 
money and their twenty-eight stivers subsidy-money, at 
least during the time they receive no service-money. The 
poverty among these people was great ; they suffered con- 
stantly from want of food ; and but very few of them were 
able to provide themselves with shoes, hose, and linen. 
Those who might have been able to provide themselves 
would not do so, and the others could not. The most of them 
were consequently, with the exception of the overalls they wore, 
very indifferently dressed. Eeprimands were of no avail, and 
the officers could not well bring them under the lash, because 
they saw that it was impossible for the men to provide them- 
selves ; and they fell back upon the fact that the Governor had 
promised to supply these necessaries out of the service-money. 
But nothing came of this ; and after a long time, when every 
one was convinced that twice as much service -money as was 
required for the purpose had been received, Lieutenant Khenius 
and Ensign Allemann, who were most in favour with the 
Governor, ventured to entreat him to fulfil his promise. But 
they fared badly : they were soundly abused by the Governor, 
and dismissed with a refusal. 

" Thirty or forty men, mostly baaren, or new people, driven 
thereto by hunger and distress, plotted together, and resolved 
to desert. They agreed to supply themselves with as much 
powder and lead as they could possibly get ; to let themselves 
and their arms down over the Castle- wall with a rope, and then 
to march away along the coast until they reached a Portuguese 
or some other foreign establishment, from which they hoped 
to get to Europe. This was, however, in every respect, 
an ill-planned, inconsiderate project ; for how were they to get 



209 



through the wide -stretching and uninhabited wildernesses, and 
through the broad and often overflowing rivers, to say nothing 
of the provisions required for such a distant journey ? But what 
will hunger not tempt a man to do ? The plot would have 
grown stronger had not one of the conspirators himself revealed 
it to the Governor. In the meantime, nothing had as yet been 
undertaken, and the soldiers had good reason for uniting, 
because that which was theirs by right was withheld from them. 
The Governor, who had the key to the conspiracy in his hands, 
ordered those concerned in it to be arrested, and the Fiscal- 
Independent was sternly commanded to make the strictest 
investigation into the affair. 

" Eight persons, and among these a German cavalier, Herr 
Von E , of a very good family, and two theological candi- 
dates, were looked upon as the originators and ringleaders of 
the plot ; and were immediately, by command of the Governor, 
incarcerated in the black-hole — a dungeon in which only those 
condemned to death were confined." 

Then follows a long and interesting account of the escape of 

the leader, Von E , which was planned by Lieutenant Alle- 

mann, who had taken a great interest in him when he heard 
that he was a countryman of high birth. He persuaded him 
to feign illness, had him removed to the Hospital, and one night 
assisted him to get out, and secretly conveyed him on board a 
foreign ship lying in the bay. The narrative of the fate of the 
other prisoners is then continued : — 

" As regards the seven other prisoners confined in the ^lack- 
hole,' a process was framed against them, and when the trial 
was over, they were condemned by the Senate of Justice each 
to run the gauntlet ten times, and then to be sent to Batavia 
as sailors. But this sentence did not please the Governor. He 
cried out, like another Wallenstein, ' They shall hang, the 
brutes ! they shall all hang !' The Fiscal-Independent, and the 
whole Senate protested against this, and remonstrated that 
these people could not receive sentence of death, since they had 
only planned a desertion, but had not carried it out, and had, 
besides, been driven to think of it by being deprived of privi- 
leges to which they had a right. But their arguments and 



210 



pleadings were of no avail. The Governor interrupted them 
with the authoritative sentence, ' I take the responsibility,' 
and the Senate had to be silent. A criminal sentence was made 
out against them, with the usual Dutch formalities, that they 
were to be hung with a rope from the gallows until death fol- 
lowed. The Governor immediately signed his name on the 
margin, with the terrible death warrant, fiat execidio. 

" The following morning early, between eight and nine 
o'clock, the sentence of death was read to the seven prisoners, 
and they were informed that the execution would take place the 
next da,y at nine o'clock. As soon as the sentence had been 
communicated to them, the second minister of the Eeformed 
Church entered the now opened but doubly-guarded dungeon 
to prepare the condemned for death. But one of the theologi- 
cal candidates requested the minister to be pleased to go back 
to his house, remarking that he and his companions all be- 
longed to the Evangelic Lutheran Church, and that he and the 
other candidate would try to console and prepare themselves 
and their companions for death. The minister announced this 
to the Governor, and he, who generally showed no feeling for 
religion, was quite content to let him depart. On the same day 
the prisoners were, according to custom, fed from the Governor's 
kitchen, and supplied with everything they wanted. But they 
ate little, and spent most of the day in singing and prayer. 

" The following morning early, at eight o'clock, the whole 
garrison, with the free-ticket men who had uniforms, paraded 
in the Castle-yard, or field-of-arms, and at nine o'clock marched 
past the Governor's house, but, as usual on such occasions, 
commanded by only one officer. The prisoners were brought 
from their dungeon by a guard, and the sentence of death and 
the notice of their crime were again read to them from the top 
of the steps which, running up both sides of the entrance to Go- 
vernment House, form a sort of small balcony. Thereupon the 
garrison marched off and paraded at the place of execution, 
forming in circle round the gallows. The prisoners were then 
gently led away and brought to the spot. The one candidate 
took three, and the other two of their companions, and com- 
forted and prayed with them as they went. A large tent is on 



211 



such occasions erected at the place of execution, and thither the 
whole Senate of Justice is escorted by the Governor's guard. 
The sergeant of the guard marches in front with six grenadiers, 
then follows the messenger of justice, with a long thorn wand, 
mounted with silver at both ends, in his hand, and carrying his 
hat under his arm. Behind him come all the members of the 
Senate, walking two and two, and the corporal of the guard 
with six grenadiers closes the procession. The members of the 
Senate seat themselves in the chairs provided for them in the 
tent, and watch the whole execution from the beginning to end. 
The two candidates knelt down with their companions at the 
place of execution, prayed with great feeling and edification, 
and took most affectionate and impressive leave of each other, 
as one after the other they were led away to execution. Mil- 
lions of tears were shed by the soldiers and spectators standing 
around ; even the members of the Senate of Justice could not 
conceal their tears and emotion. At last the turn came to the 
first of the two candidates, and they said farewell, in the hope 
and assurance of soon meeting again in the holy tabernacle 
above. Last of all, the second candidate was also led to the 
ladder. The hangman was about to put the rope round his 
neck, when he interrupted him : ' Pardon me a moment, I have 
. something to say.' The executioner stopped, and the candidate 
turned his face towards the Castle and the Government House 
beyond the gate, and cried with a loud voice, ' Governor Van 
Noot ! I summon you in this very hour before the Judgment 
Seat of the Omniscient God, there to give account of the souls 
of myself and my companions. Now, in God's name,' said he, 
turning to the hangman, allowed the rope to be fixed round his 
neck, and ascended the ladder with a firm step, when another 
rope was put round his neck, and when both had been fixed to 
the cross-beam, the hangman pushed him from the ladder, and 
there he hung, dead, without a single struggle. 

" After the execution, the whole Senate, escorted by the 
guard in the order before-mentioned, returned to the Castle and 
to the Governor's house, to report to him, as duty and custom 
required, the execution of the sentence. They entered together 
into the large audience-hall in which the meetings of the Senate 



212 



were held, and in which also the Governor's table was spread 
at midday. The Governor was sitting at the end of the hall in 
an arm-chair. They bowed to him ; but the Governor did not 
make the least sign of recognition. The gentlemen drew nearer 
to address him, when, merciful God ! they saw that he sat mo- 
tionless in his chair/" He was dead ; despair was on his coun- 
tenance, and he had such a horrible look, that all the gentle- 
men suddenly and together stepped back, greatly alarmed, and 
quite overcome with wonder and horror. From this first shock 
they could scarcely recover themselves or think what they were 
doing. An alarm and cry got up — 'The Governor is dead!' 
but no one could or would believe it ; for he had been seen only 
half an hour before, healthy and hearty. Every living being in 
the Castle rushed to the spot ; but the guard at the door of 
Government House at once got orders to admit no one. The 
doors were locked, and the Senate adjourned to the house of 
Acting- Governor La Fontaine, to deliberate as to what had best 
be done. 

" One of the remaining prisoners under arrest, a man named 
Winkelmann, had a sudden idea, and shouted out, ' Nood 
(Need) is dead ; now there is no need !' (' Noot is dood, nu is er 
geen nood .") This was the signal to the other prisoners, who 
shouted out in chorus, and in a moment all the soldiers, work- 
men, and sailors in the Castle — nay, it would not be wrong to 
say everything that had life — echoed the cry, 'Noot is dead ; now 
there is no need !' This very Winkelmann, who was afterwards 
promoted to be sergeant, used, when relating the tale, suddenly 
to get quite enthusiastic when he remembered and vividly pic- 
tured the great joy which possessed all. 

' 'As soon as the gentlemen of the Senate had recovered 
themselves, and calmly w r eighed the matter, they gave orders to 
the carpenters to prepare a very mean coffin or shell, and when 
that was brought into the Governor's house his slaves were to 

* The visitor to the South African Museum will find, on entering the 
hall of that institution, the chair in which Governor Noot died, which has 
been preserved by one of the old colonial families, and a few years ago pur- 
chased and presented to the Museum. 



213 



take up the dead body and put it in just as it was. At midnight 
the captain of the guard ordered a small gate which opened 
from the back of the Castle into the open field, and which was 
called the sally-port, to be opened, and the slaves had to take 
the shell with the body and bury it at a spot pointed out to 
them. They were forbidden, upon pain of death, to speak of the 
matter, and still less to reveal the spot where they had buried 
him. Thus the matter remained a secret, and it was only pre- 
sumed that he had been interred on an islet at the head of the 
bay, called Paarden Island. 

" The carpenters had after this to prepare a magnificent 
coffin of Indian teak, and as soon as this was ready, the funeral 
ceremonies were arranged with an empty coffin. The two trum- 
peters, whom the Company allows to the Governor at the Cape, 
went before, with their trumpets muffled in black cloth. An 
ensign, with pike reversed, and draped in black, led the six 
hautboy-players, whose instruments were also draped with black 
cloth. Then followed the commandant and all the other offi- 
cers, with the whole garrison, marching with arms reversed ; the 
spontoons were simply draped, but both banners were com- 
pletely enveloped in black. The drums of the drummers were 
each wrapped round and muffled with three ells of black cloth, 
and the sergeants had crape on their halberds. The adjutant, 
apparently in deep mourning, but inwardly rejoicing, bore aloft, 
on a pole covered with black cloth, and with long pieces of 
crape fluttering from it, the Governor's coat -of- arms, painted 
on a square board. Then came the empty coffin, borne by 
secretaries and assistants, and surrounded by the Governor's 
guard. Four under-merchants held the four corners of the pall. 
Behind the coffin followed the Acting Governor, the Fiscal-In- 
dependent, the clergy, merchants, and all people of distinction. 
In marching past, the guard at the gate presented arms, the 
officers saluted, and the drummers beat their drums. Every 
minute during the procession, according to a watch held in his 
hand by the constable, a gun was fired from the bastions of the 
Castle, and answered from all the ships lying in the bay, and at 
each gun the flags on the ships, as well as the one flying on the 
Catellenbogen bastion of the Castle, were dipped. After the 



214 



coffin had been carried into the church and interred in the 
vault, the whole garrison fired three rounds with small arms, 
each of which was answered by the guns from the Castle, and 
then the soldiers marched back to the strains of lively music. 
Never was the well-known return-march, ' Praise God that he 
is dead ! praise God that he is dead !' played more gaily than it 
was played by the drummers on this occasion. As this im- 
posing funeral ceremony had been conducted with an empty 
coffin, the common people found cause to believe and to relate 
that the devil had made away even with the soulless body of 
the deceased Governor Van Noot. 

" It is not to be supposed that this mournful tale was kept 
quiet, and only whispered in the ear in confidential discourses. 
Even in my time — and I did not arrive in the Cape for three 
years after the event — it often formed the subject of conversa- 
tion in public companies. I have put together the narrative 
exactly as I heard it related, without variation, by many citi- 
zens, high and low. Both from Mr. Allemann and his wife, 
however, I had to understand that they were very cautious in 
saying a single word in such conversations. They always tried 
to break away from the subject, and bring up some other matter 
for conversation. Their good hearts, overflowing with gratitude, 
as they well might, could not endure the recollection of the 
mournful event, still less to speak of what they could not think 
of without experiencing a shock of horror." 



ADDBESSES TO CHILDBEN. 



ON CHEISTMAS DAY. 

Dear Child, — Yon know what a birthday is. Are you not 
very glad when you keep the birthday of your father or mother, 
or your brothers or sisters ? Is it not a very joyful day ? 
Have you not sometimes jumped about with joy, and run to 
tell your little friends, " I am so glad ! Do you know what 
has happened in our house ? I have got a little brother or a 
little sister ; he was born to-day, and papa is so glad, and 
mamma is so glad, and we are all so glad, because this is a 
birthday !" We are sure, dear child, that you like to keep 
birthdays. Well, whose birthday is it to-day, do you think ? 
Guess. Your papa's ? No, you will say. Your mamma's ? 
No. Your brother's ? No. Your sister's ? No. Oh ! no ; 
but it is the birthday of one you ought to love very much, for 
He loves you as much as your papa and mamma and brothers 
and sisters do. It is the birthday of that Jesus about whom 
we have always been speaking in the Sabbath School. We 
cannot keep school with you to-day, and therefore we send you 
this little book, to tell you to be very glad to-day, for it is the 
birthday of your dear friend Jesus. Are you not glad to hear 
it ? 

Well, would you like to hear where he was born ? And 
would you like to know what happened when he was born ? 
He was not born in his mother's house. Mary, his mother, 
had gone to a little town called Bethlehem, and when she came 
there at night, she could find no room in the inn ; so she had 
to go into the stable of the inn. You know what a stable is, 
don't you ? A place where they put horses and cows ; and you 
always see one beside an inn. Well, what do you think hap- 
pened in the stable at Bethlehem the night Mary was staying 



216 



there ? Jesus was born there. Jesus, of whom you have heard 
so many great things during the year. He wa's born in a stable, 
and because his mother, Mary, was far from home, and had no 
cradle, she laid him in the manger. Yes, my dear child, the 
great and the good Jesus, who was so fond of children, was 
once a little child too. You know what wonderful things he 
did when he became a man. But once he was a helpless little 
child, and his mother took him up in her arms and laid him in 
a manger. And do you know what strange things happened at 
that time ? We will tell you some. There w^ere people came 
from a far-off country, and they brought presents with them. 
And where were they going, do you think ? To see the little 
child Jesus. But they did not. know where he would be born. 
So God gave them a star to lead them to Bethlehem. You 
don't see the stars moving about now; but that star moved 
along before the people who were seeking Jesus, and when it came 
to Bethlehem it stood still above the stable, and the people went 
into the stable and saw Jesus. And they were very glad. And 
they fell down on their knees, and gave the rich presents they had 
brought to the little child Jesus wdio w T as lying in the manger. 
But it was not only these people that were so glad. It was such 
a joyful day for the angels of God. They came down from 
heaven and told the people that Jesus was born, and they were 
so glad that they sang this beautiful hymn, " Glory to God in 
the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men." And 
this was all because Jesus was born — Jesus, the Son of God, 
who was to save sinners. 

And ever since, for it is now long ago that Jesus was born, 
good people keep the birthday of Jesus, and are glad when th6 
25th of December comes. And they go and say to their friends, 
" "We are glad to-day, for to-day Jesus was born." And good 
little children have always kept his birthday, and therefore we 
wish you too to be glad to-day, and say to all people whom you 
meet, " Oh, I am so glad! Jesus the Saviour, the Friend of 
Children, was born to-day." You will hear the bells ringing to- 
day, and see the people going to Church to-day, and it is all be- 
cause it is the birthday of your Saviour Jesus. We call to-day 
Christmas, which is a contraction for the Feast of Christ, just 



217 



as you call the days npon which your friends were born feast 
days. So this is Christmas, because it is the birthday of Jesus 
Christ. Don't you congratulate your friends on their birth- 
days ? Well, you cannot go and congratulate Jesus, and He 
does not want you to do so. But you can go and thank Him 
that He came into the world, and became a little child, that you 
might be saved. And you can go and thank God, His Father, 
that He sent Jesus into the world to die for you and all other 
children, who will only believe that He came into the world to 
save you. Be very glad then to-day, for it is Christmas, and 
show God that you are glad and thankful for the great gift 
which He has given you to-day, by saying — 

O God, I thank Thee that Thou has spared me to see another 
Christmas Day. fill my heart with gladness and love to Jesus, 
who came into the world for me. Hear me, God, for Jesus' sake. 
Amen. 



ON NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

My Deae Child, — We wish you to learn by heart your num- 
bers, and we make them very large so that you may see them 
well. The numbers are 1, 8, 5, 6. If you read these num- 
bers together they are Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-six. What 
does that mean, do you think ? We will tell you. It is the 
number of the year which begins to-day. Everything has a 
name. You know that the day upon which you come to our 
Sabbath School is called Sunday, and the day after, Monday, 
and all the other days have their names too. The months have 
names too. The month which begins to-day is called January, 
and the month which ended yesterday is called Decembeiv So 
this year is called 1856, for 1855 ended yesterday, and to-day is 
the first day of another year. And we have given this day 
another name. We call it New Year's Day. And before we 
say anything more, we wish you a happy New Year. 

And now, dear child, we wish to tell you some things about 
New Year, and also wish you to think about these things. 
Q 



You will tear the bells of the Churches ringing to-day, and 
you will see the good people going to Church. Why do 
they ring, do you think ? And why do the people go to 
Church, do you think? Is it Sunday? No, you will say, 
for the day before yesterday was Sunday, and we call to-day 
Tuesday. You are quite right ; to-day is Tuesday. But 
don't you remember we gave it another name ? We called 
it New Year's Day, and it is because it is New Year's Day 
that the bells ring. And because it is New Year's Day the 
good people and the good children go to Church. And we 
will tell you what they go to do in Church on New Year's 
Day. They go with great gladness to thank God our Father in 
Heaven that he has spared them to see another New Year's 
Day. Some of the old people have seen a great number of 
New Year's Days. But you are perhaps so young that you can 
only remember hearing the bells ringing once upon New Year's 
Day. But you ought to be just as giad as the old people. We 
will tell you why. just a short time ago there was a great 
sickness in this town where you live, and many little children 
got sick and they died, although they were just as young, and 
perhaps younger than you are. Perhaps you knew some of the 
little children. Perhaps you used to play with them ; but you 
cannot do so to-day. You hear the bells ringing ; but they can- 
not hear them. And why not ? Because they are lying 
in the ground. Perhaps you saw some of them buried. 
You saw people making a hole in the earth, and putting 
your little friends into the hole, and then covering it 
up again, and then going away. And now the great sick- 
ness is away, and it is New Year's Day, and you are still 
alive, and we wish you to be very glad. And we wish you 
to tell God that you are glad and thankful. And we wish 
you to tell the good Jesus that you are glad. And why must 
you tell them ? Because they have spared you, and not let you 
die of the measles like the other children. When your father 
or your mother gives you something, are you not very glad ? 
And don't you thank them for being so kind to you ? And you 
love them, don't you ? Well, God has given you a great gift 
to-day. He has given you the New Year's Day. He has kept 



M9 



fou alive for a whole year. He has taker! away other little 
children, and has not given them a New Year's Day. There- 
fore you ought to be very joyful and very thankful. And Jesus 
will be glad when He sees that you are glad. You have heard 
on the Sunday how good He was when He was upon earth. He 
is called the Good Shepherd. And He has been so good to you. 
Just as a shepherd watches his sheep all the year, so Jesus has 
watched over you. He has fed you, and clothed you, and kept 
jrou in health, and He led you all through the long year that 
is past, and brought you to see another New Year's Day. Be 
very glad, then. 

But the old people do not go to Church to-day with great 
gladness. They also go with great sorrow. And why is that, 
do you think ? We will tell you. They go to tell God, our 
Father in Heaven, that they have not deserved His good- 
ness. They have done many wicked things during the year 
that is xaast, and therefore they are very sorry. And we 
wish you to be very sorry too. Is this not strange ? We have 
just told you to be very glad, and now we tell you to be very 
sorry. But just read on, and you will see that you can be both 
glad and sorry to-day. You have read why you ought to be 
glad ; now hear why you ought to be sorry. Because you have 
often done things during the past year that your good and kind 
Friend and Saviour, Jesus, does not like you to do. We will 
ask you some questions, and leave you to answer them as your 
conscience tells you. Don't be angry with us for asking them, for 
we must tell you first that we ask ourselves the same questions 
that we are going to ask you, and we are also sorry to-day because 
we cannot answer them as we should like to do. Here is the first 
question now. Have you loved your dear Friend Jesus during 
all the past year as you ought to have done ? What does your 
heart say ? When we ask ourselves this question our hearts 
say No. Does yours say Yes ? We will ask another question. 
Have you loved your earthly friends, your father and mother, 
and brother and sisters^ all the past year as you ought to have 
done ? What does your heart say, Yes or No ? There is 
another question. Are you really glad, thankful to Jesus, to- 
day ? We have told you you ought to be. And we have told 



220 



you why. Now, tell us if you can say Yes or No to this last 
question. We could ask you many more questions, but we 
would not like to tire you, and we are sure that if you sit still 
and think, your own heart will ask you many questions. Well, 
now, can you understand why w r e wish you to be both glad and 
sorry to-day ? If you cannot we will say it over again in a 
very few words. You ought to be very glad because Jesus has 
kept you during the whole of last year, and been very good to 
you. And you ought to be sorry because you have not always 
done everything that Jesus wishes you to do. 

And now, dear child, we must bring this little book, to an 
end. But first we w T ould like you to remember that perhaps you 
may not live to see the end of the year which begins to-day. 
God may bring the measles back this year, or he may bring 
some other sickness, and you may become sick, and you may 
die before the leaves come on to the trees again. And you know 
the leaves must come and go away again before another New 
Year comes. So we wish you always to live as if you might 
die before another New Year. And we like you to love Jesus 
with your whole heart before he takes you away. For if you 
love him you will go and live with him when you die, and you 
will be far happier than the children upon earth. When they 
hear the bells ringing on New Year's Day you will hear the 
angels singing the praises of Jesus, the friend of children. 
Therefore, dear child, remember these words : If you wish to 
see Jesus in heaven when you die, you must love him upon 
earth while you live. And now again we wish you a happy New 
Year, and we wish you to pray to Jesus to-day, and say — 

O Jesus, I thank Thee that Thou hast spared me to see this New 
Year's Day. Lord, I have not deserved Thy mercy, for I have 
not loved Thee as I ought to have done during the past. Lord, he 
with me this New Year, and make me a better child than I was last 
year. Amen. 



CAPE TOWN : PIKE AND BYLES, PRINTERS, ST. GEORGE's-STREET, 



